


The Heart of You and I

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-25 15:45:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3816001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story of how Draco was made a Veela after the war, befriended and fell in love with Harry Potter, and finally became the hero of the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost!
> 
> I decided that instead of making it 3 parts again, I'd post it in the original 5.

“Draco Malfoy, you are hereby acquitted of all crimes!” shouted Minister Shacklebolt, slamming the gavel down onto the sounding block with an air of finality, even as the people in the stands stood up and howled with rage, shaking their fists and cursing Merlin that acquitting a Malfoy was a horrendous crime in and of itself.

It occurred to Draco that maybe this was the moment where he should feel relieved. The prospect of life in Azkaban was gone now, and he was free to leave and rejoin society once again as a free man. But all he could feel was the empty weight of his own tiredness that made his eyelids droop and his muscles weak. It had taken a lot out of him just to hold himself upright in his seat.

“Mr. Malfoy,” said a guard, coming up to stand next to his chair. “Come with me.”

The screaming seemed to rise in pitch the longer Draco listened to it. It made his already bad headache that much worse. As the guard stood between Draco and his freedom, Draco decided it wouldn't be wise to fight with him. All Draco wanted to do was go home and sleep for at least a decade.

Standing, he allowed himself to be ushered out of the courtroom, feeling the weight of hundreds of scornful eyes on his back as he retreated.

In a small room off to the side of the courtroom, Draco was given back his wand and the few items that had been in the pockets of his cloak when he'd come in. Bits of useless rubbish like broken quills and a few pieces of parchment. In the eyes of the Ministry, anything could be used as a weapon. Therefore everything was confiscated and examined until it was either deemed safe and returned, or destroyed if it was dangerous.

Draco wished they'd have just binned them. Would have saved him the effort of doing so, at the very least.

The guard looked at him like he was dung on the bottom of his shoe. Draco supposed he ought to get used to the death glares now. If he didn't, it'd be a shock to the system to step outside and receive the same looks directed at him. Given his history, if he didn't get used to it now, he'd surely lose his temper and make things that much worse for himself.

He grabbed the useless junk that had been in his pockets, and stuffed it all back where it had come from. He'd be escorted out of the building, and that would be that. He'd be on his own.

“Move it, boy,” the guard said gruffly, giving Draco a little shove in the direction of the door before wiping his hand on his robes hastily, as if Draco carried a disease contracted through touch. “I haven't got all day.”

On any other day Draco would have replied with a witty quip designed to bring down his enemy a few notches, but times had changed and he was simply too tired to care. He stifled a sigh and tried not to drag his feet, tried not to notice how exhausted he was, and allowed himself to be chivvied out of the Ministry.

The glare of the sun brought tears to Draco's eyes as he tightened his grip on his wand on the front steps of the Ministry, and disapparated.

Malfoy Manor, during the two week long period in which all three Malfoys had been detained by the Ministry, had been ransacked of all the dark artefacts that they could find, and continued to do so a few days after Lucius Malfoy was charged and imprisoned in Azkaban for life. Draco knew the Ministry officials would never have found the hidden rooms in which cursed objects had been hidden for centuries; they needed Malfoy blood to find it. Draco had yet to decide whether having cursed objects in the Manor was a good thing any more.

“Draco?” called Narcissa from the sitting room. She placed her book down on the arm of her chair as she stood, clasping her hands delicately and resting them on her lap. “How did it go?”

“I was freed, Mother,” said Draco, biting back the 'obviously' that surely came through in his tone.

Narcissa smiled wavered a bit. “I'm glad.”

They stood there in silence that neither of them knew how to fill any more. After all that had happened, there was not much left for them to say.

“Right,” said Draco, swaying a little on the spot. “I'm going to bed.”

Narcissa nodded her head, sitting down again. She knocked the book off the armchair and jumped at the loud bang it made, looking around as if expecting someone to come out of the shadows and attack her. Draco sighed and left, heading up to his room. Now that she was frightened, Narcissa wouldn't speak again for a while.

As soon as he entered his room, making sure to close and lock the door securely behind him, he started taking off his clothes and throwing them around the room carelessly, climbing into bed in just his pants. The sheets were soft and silky and he hummed in tired pleasure, stretching out.

Merlin, he was so tired … and he'd barely done anything all day …

_You spin around, wand slashing through the air as you move. Too late. Always too late. It is upon you in the split second it took for you to think of a spell to fire. Pain, so much pain –_

Draco sat bolt upright in bed, the blankets twisted around him like a strait-jacket. He gasped as if he'd run miles, sweating enough to dampen the sheets beneath him and make him feel disgustingly unclean. Draco threw himself out of bed and onto the floor. He writhed madly to dislodge the blankets, then stumbled his way into the bathroom.

Thankful that he'd slept in pants, Draco ran his fingers down his chest. The old Sectumsempra scar was still there, a diagonal slash from the left side of his chest to the bottom of his right rib cage. New scars broke the line of the Sectumsempra scar now. There were new grooves in his skin where the flesh had been ripped out. Others might've worn it with pride to say they'd survived, but Draco wore them with shame because he'd lived.

His heart burned and his cheeks reddened with humiliation. After all this time, after all he'd done, he still couldn't die right. Spinning away from the mirror, he marched away before he could punch it. Seven years bad luck on top of whatever amount of bad luck he currently carried wouldn't do him any good. He returned to bed, snatching up the clothes closest to him as he went and pulled them on. He wondered whether he should stop sleeping in just his pants from now on.

As soon as he curled up into a ball in the centre of the bed, his stomach chose that precise moment to protest how empty it was, grumbling with such intensity that he winced and pressed his hand into his stomach, hoping the pressure would alleviate the churning a little. Draco closed his eyes, his upper lip trembling in frustration.

After a moment, he sagged in defeat and accepted the fact that he'd have to leave his bedroom to get breakfast. As much as he wanted to call one of the house elves, he had to admit, even just to himself, that he couldn't stay in bed all day, no matter how much he wanted to. Heaving a great sigh, he swung his legs off the bed and stood up, swapping his shirt for a fresh one.

Stepping out into the hall, Draco was astonished to see that the sun was rising. He'd slept all night despite his nightmares.

Narcissa sat in the same place she had last night, the book she'd been reading still resting in a heap on the floor, several pages bent. Her eyes stared ahead, a vacant look on her face. Draco couldn't determine how long she'd been in her 'Dark Place,' as he'd dubbed it, but from the way her body trembled from the frigid temperature of the sitting room, he could tell it had been a while. She must've told the house elves not to tend to the fire, as there was nothing but a pile of embers in the grate.

For a second, Draco entertained the thought of snapping her out of it, to try and bring her back to her old self for maybe just a minute, but he decided against it almost immediately. He was still exhausted and whatever effort he put into the attempt would be wasted within no time anyway. She was only lucid and aware of herself and her surroundings for a brief period of time; if Draco brought her out of her depression, she would only sink back into it a few minutes later. He made his way down to the kitchen.

The house elves squeaked as he almost brought the door down upon entry, all of them scattering out of his way. Not one of them attempted to approach him.

In the kitchen there were several contraptions that Draco was unfamiliar with. He recognised only the tea kettle and made a beeline toward that.

“How do you – bloody – turn this thing on?!” he growled, grabbing the kettle and examining it from all angles.

If house elves and Muggles could work this damn thing, then he saw no reason why it wouldn't work for him. But after several seconds of struggling, running his fingers up the smooth stainless steel kettle and finding nothing, he was forced to admit that years of having people do things for him was now working against him.

Frustration reaching boiling point, he hurled the kettle at the wall with an incoherent shout. The lid burst open and water poured out. The part of the wall it hit was now cracked. The elves whimpered from their hiding places.

“Fucking damn it!” he screamed. “Damn it _all to hell_!”

What kind of person couldn't even make their own fucking tea?

Fine, then he just wouldn't have it then!

Straightening his posture, Draco gathered the remains of his pride and attempted to leave the kitchen with dignity, only to slip and swear when he'd stepped in the puddle of water he'd momentarily forgotten about.

“Clear this shite up!” he yelled at the house elves, jabbing a finger at the kettle. He slammed the kitchen door to the sound of house elves scrambling to do as they were ordered.

*

After the abysmal attempt at making tea, Draco went back to ordering the house elves to bring him food directly to his bedroom. There was no sense in trying to learn when there were servants to do the job. Draco spent a lot of the next few weeks in bed, buried under a mound of blankets, sleeping only when his exhaustion got to be too much to bear. He rarely saw Mother these days, and he soon began to wonder whether she even realised he was absent, or if she was too lost in her own little world to care.

His back had begun to itch fiercely, as if the skin were dry and beginning to crack open from the lack of moisture. No amount of scratching made the itch go away; if anything, it made it worse – to the point where he was almost brought to tears. Showering didn't help. Moisturisers didn't help. Draco was at a loss for what to do.

When it first began, he found that sleeping was a good way to take his mind off the itch, but soon enough it kept waking him up, leaving him writhing around in agony. He had the sheets and pillowcases changed, and when that didn't work he allowed the house elves to take the blankets to wash, but nothing helped. There was nothing in the bed but him. No insects; no nothing. Just him.

If this had occurred three, maybe four, years ago, he would have gone to see a Healer immediately. Such as it was, no Healer would see him now. He'd be turned away before he reached the front entrance to St. Mungo's. All he could do was suffer in the privacy of his own bedroom and hope that he got better soon. There was no private healer in the country who would see him now, no matter how many Galleons was thrown at them.

*

“Master Draco!” squeaked a house elf outside Draco's bedroom door one day. Draco had no clue what day it was, nor how long he'd been in his room. He suspected about a month. Had to be. “Is Dinky being allowed in?”

Draco resisted the urge to press a pillow to his face and ignore her. “Yes, what is it Dinky?”

Dinky opened the door and rushed in. “Mr. Harry Potter is being outside, sir, asking for Master Draco!”

stomach lurched in horror. For a moment he forgot entirely about the itch.

“What?” he asked, sitting up. “What does he want?”

Biting her lower lip nervously, Dinky said, “He is not saying, sir! He only says, sir, that he wishes to be speaking with you, sir. Is Dinky to be turning Mr. Harry Potter away, sir?”

“No, no, let him in, Dinky. Take him to the sitting – no! The dining – no not there either! Ah, bollocks …” He couldn't speak to Potter in the sitting room because that was where Mother was likely to be, and he couldn't speak to Potter in the dining room because that was where Potter's friend Granger was tortured. “Take him around the back to the gardens, alright? Don't let him inside.”

“Yes, Dinky be doing that, sir!” said Dinky, and vanished.

As soon as she was gone, Draco leapt up off the bed and ran around, trying to find something to make himself look presentable. Fresh shirt and trousers, his hair brushed a little bit, a quick shave to get rid of the sparse smattering of hair and he felt he looked good enough to step out of the house and into polite company (if Potter could be considered polite).

Harry Potter stood in the middle of the gardens, ignoring the white wooden chair not five feet away, hands buried in his pockets. Hearing the crunch of frozen grass underneath Draco's foot, the morning dew still hanging about even under the mid-morning sun, Potter's head whipped around and Draco didn't miss the way that Potter's hand twitched toward his wand, almost like he was expecting an attack.

“You called me out here to talk,” said Draco, holding his hands up. “Why would I attack you?”

“This place sets my teeth on edge,” said Potter, shrugging. “Can't ever be too careful.”

A muscle twitched in Draco's jaw in irritation. “Yes, well it'd be stupid to attack the Saviour, wouldn't it? Especially when said Saviour vouched for my mother and myself at our trials, yes?” He shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot, the itchiness of his back starting to get the better of him. “What do you want?”

“I came here to give you your wand back,” said Potter, producing the hawthorn wand from the inside of his jacket as he spoke, holding it out by the tip. “Doesn't seem right to keep it now that I've got my own back.”

Draco stared at the wand. He didn't move to take it.

Potter shook it at him. “Don't you want it?”

“Why would you give this back to me?” 

“Because it isn't mine,” said Potter. “Now that Voldemort is beaten, I don't need it.”

Draco managed not to flinch at the Dark Lord's name. He yearned to reach out and grab the wand from Potter, the wand he'd almost died for in the Room of Requirement, but his mind screeched at him that there could be an ulterior motive toward this seemingly random act of good will.

Rolling his eyes, Potter stepped forward, grabbed Draco's arm and yanked it up. He slapped the wand into the palm of Draco's hand, then released him and stepped back again.

“That's all I wanted to do,” said Potter. “I'm not going to do anything … underhanded.”

“Why would you want to give this wand back to me?” demanded Draco, resisting the urge to drop the hawthorn wand in the dirt and run for the safety of his bedroom. “This is the wand you killed the Dark Lord with. Would have thought you'd have sold it to a museum, or something similar, and have it showcased. Would have been worth a lot of money.”

Potter snorted derisively, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I don't care about money. I have enough.”

“Then you're an idiot,” said Draco.

“Not everything is about money, Malfoy.”

“That just shows how little you know about the way the world works.” Gah, but this bloody itch was killing him! Draco's lips thinned. “Is this all you came for?”

Potter narrowed his eyes at him calculatingly. “Are you alright, Malfoy?”

“I'm fine! Why?”

“No reason. You just seem … shifty. More so than usual, I mean”

“And an impromptu meeting with someone who has been my enemy for years wouldn't make me shifty?”

“Point,” said Potter. “But I'm hardly going to do anything to you, or … How's your mother?”

Draco blinked in surprise. “Why do you care?”

It was Potter's turn to shift nervously, which, in turn, worsened Draco's distrust of Potter. As far as he knew, there was no reason for Potter to care about Mother's condition; he'd testified for her, yes, but as far as Draco was aware that was the extent of how much he cared for her well-being. He felt the need to move toward the door and block it, preventing Potter from attempting to get in.

“I just … do,” said Potter lamely.

That was not a good enough answer for Draco.

“If you don't mind, I'd like you to leave,” he said firmly. “Dinky!”

The house elf popped in out of thin air, wringing her hands nervously. “Yes, Master Draco, sir?”

“Take Mr. Potter out the way he came,” said Draco, jerking his head at Potter, who didn't look surprised at all to hear that he was being kicked out.

“You could at least thank me for returning your wand,” he said dryly.

Draco felt his left eyebrow twitch in irritation. “Yes, _thank you_ , Potter. Now, if you'll follow Dinky out …”

Without waiting to see them leave, Draco spun around on his heels and marched toward the back door, hands balled into fists. However, before he could even reach the patio, agony zinged through Draco, so sudden and sharp that he cried out, dropping to his knees.

“Malfoy!” Potter cried out. Within seconds he was skidding down on his knees beside Draco, hands hovering over him, uncertain where to touch. “What is it? What's wrong?”

“My back,” said Draco through clenched teeth. He saw no point in pretending now. “Fuck, it hurts.”

“May I lift your shirt to see?” asked Potter.

Draco didn't trust himself to speak, for he thought if he tried he might vomit, choosing to nod his head frantically. It felt like ants were crawling underneath his skin! Potter grabbed the bottom of Draco's shirt and gingerly lifted it up to Draco's shoulders.

“Merlin, Malfoy …,” Potter breathed, stunned.

Oh, Draco didn't like the sound of that. “What? What is it?”

“You're such an idiot! Why wouldn't you seek medical attention for this?”

“Seek medical attention for _what_?”

“Your back is covered in lacerations!” said Potter sharply, an edge of hysteria to his voice. “No wonder you're in pain, you idiot. Freaking huge, too. From the top of your shoulder blades down to just below your rib 

cage. Merlin, they're starting to bleed …”

“How fresh are they?”

“What do you mean how _fresh are they_?” Potter demanded, still holding Draco's shirt up. “What, can't you remember getting yourself sliced to ribbons?”

“No, actually I don't,” said Draco testily. “All I've felt for the past few weeks is itchy.”

“And you never bothered to check your back?”

Draco barely registered Potter's knuckles brushing along his back as he inspected the wounds, the agony from said wounds taking precedence in Draco's mind.

“Of _course_ I did! There was never anything there to be concerned about. You can let go of my shirt now, Potter.” Breathing heavily, Draco pushed himself up to his feet, ignoring the rush of vertigo that threatened to put him back down on his arse.

“What I don't understand is why you don't go see a healer.”

“Oh, right!” scoffed Draco, rounding on him. “I'd forgotten how stupid you can be. Look around you. Where are you? Who are you talking to? There's no one in this godforsaken country that would lift a finger to help me, even if I wanted their help. I'd much rather deal with this on my own.”

“Fantastic job you've done of it so far,” muttered Potter.

Draco's hands curled into fists. He almost gave into temptation and punched Potter in his stupid fat face. After the agony of the past few weeks, it would've felt great to take his temper out on someone else.

“Well, now that you've seen what's wrong with me,” said Draco. _What's ever right with you?_ asked a snide voice in his head. He firmly shut it out.“You can leave.”

“What?!” Harry's brows crawled toward his hairline in surprise. “Malfoy, you can't expect me to just leave you in this condition. Even if you are a right prat, I couldn't just go.”

“Hero complex kicking in again?” Draco rolled his eyes, stepping back. “I don't need you to play the saviour and save the big bad Death Eater, Potter. I've lived with this – whatever this is – for weeks now. I can continue doing so for a little longer.”

“That's just stupid, Malfoy,” said Potter. Then, as an afterthought, he said, “And I don't have hero complex.”

“Sure you don't.” Draco snorted and then quickly sucked in a gasp of pain as agony shot down his spine like a lightning bolt. In a (rather poor) attempt to hide it, he drew himself up to his fullest height and lifted his chin high in the air. From the look on Potter's face, he wasn’t fooling anybody. “I'm going back inside now.”

There was a little squeak somewhere to his left. Draco looked over and was surprised to see Dinky still standing where he'd left her, looking terrified as she clutched at her pillowcase dress.

“Dinky, please take Mr. Potter out now,” he said.

“Yes, I is doing that, Master Draco, I is doing that now, sir!” said Dinky, looking very relieved at having something to do. She span on her heels and said to Potter, “Please be coming along now, sir!”

“I'll be back soon,” said Potter.

Draco scoffed. “Why would you come back? I don't need saving.”

“No,” said Potter calmly, giving him an unrecognisable look over his shoulder. “But you do need help.”

He left Draco standing stunned in the gardens, trying to figure out what he was meant to think of that.

*

Now that he was aware of what was wrong, the itch turned into a steady burn that lasted the whole night without relief. Draco writhed in the centre of the bed, ripping the sheets off the corners, twisting the blankets around his legs, and punching the pillows that he screamed into whenever the pain got too much. Coated in a sheen of sweat, Draco felt feverish and delirious, unable to tell the passing of time.

What was wrong with him?

“He is being in here, Mr. Harry Potter, sir!” someone said – or shouted. The voice was loud, grating on Draco's last nerves. He wanted to lunge across the room and beat them into a pulp. He wanted to – he wanted to hurt someone as much as he was hurting. He wanted to show them what it was like to be him in that moment.

“Fucking hell, Draco!” someone else said. “Why the fuck would you let it come to this?”

Draco felt cool hands grasp at his overheated body, pulling him around and then lifting him right off the bed as if he weighed nothing. Well, he probably didn’t weigh much. Didn't exactly have an appetite the last few weeks, or was it months? He couldn't tell any more.

“Always gotta make things more difficult for yourself than they have to be,” said the mysterious person. “Good thing I'm around, or you'd be royally fucked.”

Draco tried to form a reply, but the message got mangled in the filter between his brain and his mouth, and all that came out was unintelligible mumbling.

“Shut up. It's a good thing that Dinky was worried and let me in,” said the person, not unkindly. “I'm going to Apparate us to St. Mungo's. Hold on.”

Draco's stomach almost rebelled as the sensation of being forced through a very small tube overcame him. Suddenly he was glad of his recent lack of appetite. He wanted to slap a hand over his mouth just in case he did vomit, but neither of his hands would move, as if they'd suddenly decided to triple their weight.

“Harry Potter!” someone screeched. “It's Harry Potter!”

Of course it would be Harry Potter, Draco thought with a groan. Who else would swoop in like a hero on a mission and scoop Draco out of bed to the hospital?

Fucking Potter.

“I'm not here to give autographs!” roared Potter, as people noticed him and began to crowd around him, begging for autographs. “I need a mediwizard!”

Someone gasped. “He's been attacked!”

The words were met with a cacophony of shrieks and promises to make Potter's hurts go away – and to make whoever done it pay. Clearly Draco was nothing more than a faceless lump in Potter's arms. An extension of Potter's own body to their eyes. If he had a good grasp on his consciousness, he would've let them all know how stupid he thought them to be.

“Out of the way!” someone ordered sharply. “Get _out of my way_.”

And that was when Draco lost consciousness.

*

“We do not take Death Eaters in!”

“He was acquitted of all crimes! Besides, he really needs help, and I'm asking you, _please_ , help him.”

“Mr. Potter, I must say that whilst we are all grateful for what you have done for us –”

“Oh, don't give me any of that bullshit. When I came into St. Mungo's, I was under the impression that everyone who works here has a job that ultimately saves lives. Well, Malfoy needs help. You've seen him. It doesn't matter who he is. The quicker you get in there, find out what's wrong and then fix him, the sooner he – and I – will be out of your hair.”

Draco opened his eyes, flinching at the onslaught of bright light from the open window. He blinked rapidly to dispel the tears. Where was he?

“Mr. Potter, I'm afraid we just don't accept his kind into this hospital. We might have allowed him a bed at your … request … but I will not let allow my Healers to treat him!”

There was a moment of silence.

Scrubbing a hand down his face, Draco turned his head toward the half-open door where the argument was coming from.

“You said you owe me a favour,” said Potter quietly, causing Draco to roll his eyes. He knew immediately what was coming next. “Well, then do me a favour and admit him to this hospital and give him the best care that you can provide. You never know, it could be something easily treated.”

“Are you trying to bribe me to accept a Malfoy into my hospital?” a man demanded, scandalised.

“No, Mr. Revis, I'm asking you to suck it up and do your damn job.” Potter slammed his hand against the door to push it open. With a grim expression on his face, he marched into the room. When he looked up, he stopped in his tracks, jaw going slack, seeing Draco awake and looking at him. “You're awake!”

“I should hope so,” said Draco. “Would've hated to miss that argument entirely.”

Potter blushed, shooting the now-closed door a glare over his shoulder. “They're being idiots.”

“No, they aren't,” said Draco tiredly. “They're doing exactly what I thought they'd do once the war ended. They're doing the sensible thing.”

“Oh, don't try and feed me that crap,” said Potter angrily, balling his hands into fists. “You deserve to be treated here just as much as anyone else does.”

“If I'd have known how tiring arguing with you on the matter would be, I'd have made Dinky turn you away at the gates,” said Draco. “Just admit that the world isn't as perfect as you thought it would be. Don't be so naïve, Potter, and expect that everyone would just be okay after the war. I am a Death Eater to them, and I always will be. They'll never admit me here.” Draco frowned, looking down at the bed. “Wait a second, how did I even get a bed in here in the first place?”

“I demanded them to give you one,” said Potter. He bit his lip. “I might have shattered a window when they refused. Kind of helped speed things along a little bit.”

“You broke a window to get me admitted?”

“I didn't mean to!” insisted Potter. “I just … lost control of my magic.”

Draco slapped a hand to his forehead. “Only you, Potter, only you.”

Despite this, Draco was still grateful that Potter had enough influence to just get him a bed in this hospital, even if there was a chance that no Healer would see him.

For the rest of the day, Draco remained in bed undisturbed. No Healer came in. The only comings and goings were made by Potter whenever he needed to use the loo, have a talk to some of the Healers in charge, or grab something to eat. The Healers were steadfastly refusing to see Draco, but when faced with Potter's own brand of stubbornness, Draco wondered just how long they'd hold out before they gave up.

“Maybe you should call it quits,” said Draco, as night began to set in. He was trying not to fidget from the burning sensation in his back, but he was at his wits end. “They're not going to see me.”

“No,” said Potter. “We're going to stay here and wait. They'll break eventually.”

Draco didn't know whether to laugh or cry in the face of Potter's obstinacy.

“All I know is that if I don't get something to sooth this burn, I'm going to go to have to join the Longbottom's on the fourth floor, I swear to Merlin,” he said, smacking his head into the rather uncomfortable pillow.

Potter shot him a concerned look. “Have pain potions worked?”

“No,” said Draco miserably. “Tried them immediately when this shite first started. No change.”

Potter bit his bottom lip, looking lost for all of one second before the expression gave into a look of terrifying fury that made Draco's heart skip a beat. For a second, he was very grateful that the emotion attached to the look was not directed at him.

“That's enough,” said Potter through clenched teeth, leaping to his feet, the chair flying across the room. “That is it. I've _had_ it with them! I am going out there right now, and I'll be coming back with a Healer even if I have to drag them by their hair!”

He marched out of the room before Draco could even think to form a response, the door slamming off the wall behind it – causing the window in Draco's room to tremble threateningly. Draco attempted to slide down the bed, a little intimidated by the crack of Potter's wild magic as he left, but his back flared up again and he quickly sat up, grimacing.

“Mr. Potter!” a woman cried. This, however, did not sound like the usual shrieking of a deluded fan, but more so an indignant response to being ordered to do something they didn't want to. “We have told you dozens of times that we will not treat a Death Eater!”

It was kind of amazing how far Potter's influence extended. If anyone else had been this persistent, the authorities would've been called on them before you could blink. But because everyone owed Potter their lives, according to them, they couldn't have a scandal on their hands by throwing him out. The scandal that would ensue if the press were to learn about it would be astronomical.

“If you just looked him over, determined what was wrong and then fixed it, we'd be out of your hair!” said Potter exasperatedly. “Honestly, we could have been in and out by now if you'd just examined him when I first brought him in.”

There was a moment of silence broken only by regular comings and goings of people. Hospital procedures being followed, delirious people trying to escape from their rooms (Draco heard someone in the distance shriek in fear), and the fluttering of many upon many memos being flown to different sections of the hospital.

“Fine!” snapped the woman. “Fine, we'll see the Death Eater.”

“His name is Draco Malfoy,” said Potter irritably. “Not _Death Eater_.”

It shocked Draco to hear Potter defending him. If this was to become a regular occurrence, then Draco couldn't see himself ever getting used to it. He made a mental note to ask why Potter was being so nice and friendly to him, and why he'd even helped him in the first place.

“Whatever,” said the woman, in a tone that blatantly told Potter not to push his luck. “Give me a moment to assemble a team together …”

Potter entered the room with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Am I the greatest, or am I the greatest?”

Draco rolled his eyes, unable to help the smile that pulled on the corners of his mouth.

“Malfoy, come on,” continued Potter. “Tell me I'm the greatest.”

“Yes, yes, you're the greatest, Potter,” said Draco sarcastically. “We all shall cower in the face of your greatness. However will we manage without it?”

“I know you're being a sarcastic little shit, but I'm going to take that as a compliment.”

“You would.”

Three Healers walked in at that moment, with expressions akin to those who were being sent to the gallows. None of them acknowledged Draco, but gave Potter a grim nod of their heads as they set up.

“Now,” said the only woman in the room, who must've been the one fighting with Potter. “What seems to be the problem?”

She spoke to the empty space of pillow right by Draco's head.

“He's got a few lacerations on his back,” said Potter quickly, just as Draco opened his mouth to respond. “He says they've been itching for months, but that there were no actual cuts on his back until recently.”

“Right,” she said. As she leaned forward, Draco spotted her name-tag. Healer Nelson. “Lean forward, please.”

Draco leaned forward. Healer Nelson grasped the bottom of his shirt and gently pulled it up, careful not to actually let her skin touch his own.

“These do look pretty fresh,” said Healer Nelson. “On a scale from one to ten, how much do they hurt?”

“I'd say … nine, perhaps? Maybe eight.”

“Healer Ranwick, go and get me a pain potion please,” said Healer Nelson. “We'll take some blood now for testing, to make sure that there isn't anything in your blood giving you problems.”

Healer Ranwick ran out of the room, muttering to himself about where the pain potions were stored.

“Pain potions don't work on him,” said Potter. “He said he's tried them, but they never work.”

“Our pain potions are a lot stronger than what you would find at an apothecary, Mr. Potter,” said Healer Nelson conversationally. “They will work.”

Potter shrugged, sitting down in an empty chair. “If you say so.”

“Hold out your arm,” instructed Healer Nelson to Draco, as the only other Healer in the room, a short and stocky man with an unfortunate amount of freckles on his face and wispy black hair stepped forward with a vial. Healer Nelson made a small cut with her wand along the crook of his arm, and the second Healer pressed the vial to it, coaxing the blood into it. When the vial was a quarter of the way full, it was drawn away and the cut healed. “Healer Robinson, take that for testing.”

Healer Robinson sighed in relief, but glanced at Potter nervously, who cleared his throat pointedly and glared at him. He squeaked a nervous, unintelligible reply and rushed from the room with his proverbial tail tucked between his legs. Despite himself, Draco grinned, catching himself when Potter grinned back. Hastily, Draco rearranged his facial expression to that of a scowl, earning him a rather fond eye roll in response. Draco couldn't allow other people to see him sharing a grin with Potter.

Healer Ranwick came back in carrying a blueish looking potion. He handed it to Draco, holding it by the rim until Draco accepted it, then yanked his hands back as if afraid he'd get infected with something if he came into contact with Draco. An insult sat heavily on the tip of Draco's tongue, but he stopped himself at the last second; these Healers could throw him out on his arse if he provoked them.

He drank the potion, immediately slapping a hand over his mouth to keep himself from spitting it out. His gag reflex fought with him, refusing to allow him to swallow the bitter potion, but, after a few seconds, he managed to relax enough to swallow it, opening his mouth to fan it out.

“We'll be back in a few hours,” said Healer Nelson tonelessly. “The results for the blood test should be back by then. Good evening.”

“Thank you,” said Potter, standing up. He held his hand out for Healer Nelson to shake. Healer Nelson stared at it for a second, glanced up at Potter with an unreadable expression, then huffed and pushed past him, stalking out of the room. “Well, she's lovely.”

“She'd have cut off her hand and sold it for a thousand Galleons had she not been forced to come in here and deal with me,” said Draco, sitting back gingerly, shifting around to find a position that wouldn't further irritate his back. “In fact, I think it might have fetched two thousand.”

The pain potion began to kick in, lessening the strength of the itching little by little. Draco breathed a sigh of relief, able to lie back on the bed without causing himself discomfort. It was the first time in a while that he'd been able to do it without sharp pangs of agony shooting down his spine. Damn, this stuff was strong. It worked after only a minute of ingestion, whereas normal pain potions worked after two minutes.

“I suppose she should be grateful that you were here then,” said Potter, amused. “Now she gets to keep her hand.”

“Two thousand Galleons poorer, though,” said Draco. “There's that.”

“True.” Potter wiped his hands on his trousers. “Do you want anything to eat? I'm starving.”

“You had two pies, a carton of those chip things, and three fizzy drinks!” said Draco incredulously. “How the hell are you still hungry? Are you housing a black hole in your stomach?”

“That was hours ago, though!” whined Potter. “And no, I don't have a black hole in my stomach. At least, I don't think I do.” He paused, thinking about it for a moment, then waved his hand through the air in front of his face, as if physically pushing the thought aside. “Do you want anything or not?”

“Get me whatever is nice down there – don't get me anything that's cheap and tastes like crap, or I swear to Merlin, you'll be wearing it.”

“Of course, Malfoy.”

“Potter, I'm serious. If you buy me something crap, you'll pay for it.”

“Of course I'll pay for it. It's my money buying it.”

“You know what I meant!”

Potter tossed his head back, laughing. He ran out before Draco could think of something to say – or grab something to throw, even though his options of items to throw were extremely limited. Biting his lip, Draco smiled fondly down at the thin sheets that covered his legs.

Bickering with Potter without animosity as a cover felt … good. Great, even. Kind of like having a friend. Without animosity to feed the fire of their teasing, it felt good-natured and light.

Draco had never had someone tease him quite like Potter did, as if he were a friend. The barbs traded between the Slytherins felt weighty, layered with hidden meanings – coded messages between the teaser and the teased, where any information that resided solely between the two could become public knowledge.

But this – this felt different and… wonderful.

He could get used to that.


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2

Potter bought Draco a couple of sandwiches – claiming that they were the only things that Draco would eat, considering they cost him four Galleons each, which was ridiculous. Draco ate the sandwiches happily, knowing he'd just taken eight Galleons off of Potter. Served him right; just how much money had he wasted on food these past few hours?

It took the Healers a lot longer than just an hour to come back with the results. They were pushing on three hours – and also pushing on the last of Potter's patience, from the way that he sat hunched in his chair, his expression growing more and more angry as time went on (continuously checking his watch then glaring at it when not much time had passed since the last time he'd checked) – when Healer Nelson arrived alone.

In her left hand, Healer Nelson held a folder. She handed it to Draco.

“I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” she said, not sounding very sorry at all. “But your blood test results have come back.”

“And?” asked Potter anxiously. “What did they show?”

With trembling hands, Draco opened the folder, grabbed the first bit of parchment inside and yanked it out. His heart missed a beat in horror.

 **HOW TO DEAL WITH BEING A VEELA.** _What changes to expect when undergoing The Change._

“What the hell?” Draco whispered. “I'm not – I'm not a Veela.”

“Show me that!” said Potter sharply, the only warning he gave before he yanked the folder out of Draco's hands. He emptied the contents all over his lap and then started hurriedly skimming through them.

“I'm afraid you are,” said Healer Nelson. “We have these pamphlets on standby for those diagnosed as a Veela. I suggest you read through them carefully.”

“I thought Veela were born, not made?” said Draco, beginning to tremble. “There's no trace of Veela heritage in the line of Malfoy.”

“One of the reasons, Mr. Malfoy, it is unwise to provoke a Veela is because of their natural protective venom, which they inject into their attacker – or, in fact, their victim. It is a paralytic. The venom is supposed to paralyse the victim whereupon they would slowly die, their insides boiling to the point of liquidising.”

“Then how did Draco survive?” demanded Potter, his gaze snapping up from the parchments. “If it was meant to paralyse and burn him from the inside out, how did he survive?”

“A quantity of venom too small to kill will transform a human into a Veela,” said Healer Nelson. “There is no way to reverse this process. The cuts on your back, Mr. Malfoy, are that of wings beginning to come through. There is nothing to be done to prevent it. Give it another few weeks and you'll have fully formed wings – although the process will be painful.”

Draco felt like his whole world had been turned upside down. As he began trying to process this new information, his heart began to race, his breath becoming sharp pants as if he were running a marathon. Quickly, to mask the emotion seeping through the cracks in his armour, he covered his face with his hands, rocking back and forth.

“Malfoy,” he heard Potter say lowly. “Malfoy, it's going to be okay –”

“No, it won't be okay!” cried Draco, slapping his hands down on the bed. “How could this be okay? My whole life is over!”

“I'll take that as my cue to leave,” said Healer Nelson, turning about-face and departing. “You'll be staying overnight so that we can monitor you, and if everything goes well we can hopefully discharge you in the morning. Good evening.”

“You're still alive, aren't you?” Potter grabbed Draco's shoulder tight, giving him a little shake. “The – the Veela who did this to you didn't kill you. That means you can overcome this.”

“Can't.” Draco laughed bitterly. “I'm going to be stuck as a Veela for the rest of my life.”

“I'm not going to let you give up,” said Potter. “You're not going to give up on yourself.”

Hoarsely, Draco asked, “Why do you even care?”

That seemed to draw Potter up short. “What – what do you mean?”

“I mean, why are you doing any of this for me?” Draco gestured around the hospital room. “No one asked you to do any of it. You – you gave my wand back to me; you brought me here and fought with the Healers to get me a bed and then for someone to look at me. I just don't understand – what's in it for _you_?”

Potter scoffed, releasing Draco's shoulder to slouch in his chair. “Not everything has to have an ulterior motive. I did it because you needed help, and there was no one else to give it to you.”

“So you pitied me, is that it?” Draco couldn't tell whether he was spoiling for a fight or just genuinely curious. He was too distraught to tell. “Poor Draco Malfoy, he looks so pathetic, better make sure I be nice to him so that I can get something out of it later!”

Potter stared at him as if he were stupid, which made him feel infinitely worse.

“That's not how it is at all,” said Potter. “Look, I'm not going to fight with you, alright? I can see that you're upset. I'm not going to make you feel worse.”

He stood up.

“I have to get back home,” he said. “I've got Auror training tomorrow and I can't be late. Just get one of the Healers to Floo me when they discharge you and I'll come pick you up.”

Draco nodded his head, averting his gaze. He didn't want Potter to leave him all alone with this knowledge of what he was becoming. He didn't want to feel like he was going to do this all on his own, even though he knew he'd have to. Potter's presence made him feel like they were both going to fight this battle together, as if the problem was theirs to share.

“I promise that I'll visit you if they don't discharge you tomorrow.”

“You don't have to.”

Potter smiled warmly at him. “I know, but I want to.”

“Okay. If they don't release me … bring me a fresh set of clothes. Just tell Dinky that I've given you permission to enter the Manor, and she'll let you in. If she doesn't believe you, then just send her to me. But since she let you in the last time, I don't think that's going to be an issue.”

“Right. Thanks. I'll do that, Malfoy.” Potter put the parchments back into the folder and put it on Draco's lap. Draco wanted to fling it across the room, or perhaps burn it, so he could pretend (just for a little while) that none of this was happening. That it was all just some cruel, horrible nightmare.

“Thanks.”

“You're welcome. Bye.”

“Bye.”

And just like that, Draco was alone.

*

After an hour of ignoring it, Draco finally grabbed the folder and decided that if he was going to be a Veela for the rest of his life, then he might as well know something other than the very basics of the Veela race. This was unavoidable, so Draco decided to stop trying to avoid it.

He read for hours, dread pooling into his gut and staying there as he scanned page after page. Tears stung his eyes, but they refused to fall down his cheeks. What was the point of crying? Filling a goblet with his tears wouldn't change anything. Everything written down here was what he had to look forward to.

 _I’ve got to suck it up and bear it,_ thought Draco. _You survived Voldemort living in your home. You survived the War. You survived the Veela attack. You're not going to give up now._

_I can't give up now._

When a morning dawned after a sleepless night, Draco felt calm. Focused. Ready.

He'd taken several of life's curses that were meant to kill him and he got right back up each and every time. One more curse certainly wouldn't kill him. Well, at least not immediately.

*

St. Mungo's couldn't have got rid of him any faster if they'd forced him on the fastest broom in the world and directed him toward the exit. Healer Nelson told him he could leave, thrust the release papers under his nose and waited for him to sign. When he did, she whirled away and told him he could go. Even though he felt like crap and wondered whether it was perhaps too soon for him to be discharged, he was glad to see the back of them – just as much, if not more so, as they were to see the back of him.

There was no time to ask anyone to owl Potter and tell him he was being discharged. Draco shrugged, deciding to send him his own owl when he got back to the Manor.

Pulling out his wand when he stepped out of the hospital, right into the Apparition point, Draco Apparated just outside the Manor's wards.

“Draco?” Mother's voice made Draco stop dead in the atrium. She appeared in the doorway, nothing more than a mere waif now. A shadow of her old, confident self. The hardships of the last year had reduced her to less than what Draco could bear her to be. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, Mum, it's me,” said Draco.

“You've been gone all night,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from disuse.

“I – yeah,” said Draco. Was she going to ask where he'd been?

However, Mother just turned and walked away again. Swallowing back tears, Draco hurried after her, only to see her curl up into her armchair in the sitting room, staring ahead blankly.

For one wild moment, Draco wanted to shake her. He wanted to find something that would bring the old her out. He couldn't stand this ghost-like, piss-poor imitation of her any more.

 _Control yourself,_ Draco told himself firmly. _One day she might snap out of it._

But how long could he continue waiting for that elusive 'one day' before he got disappointed when it never came and gave up hope?

Draco inhaled sharply, dragged a hand through his hair, and stormed up to his room with the intention of sleeping for the rest of his fucking life. He forgot to owl Potter and tell him he wasn't at the hospital any more.

Entering the bedroom, Draco tossed the folder aside, uncaring as to where it landed. Crashing down on the bed, rolling over onto his stomach, Draco stared out the window where he could partially see the lush gardens beyond and great white clouds sweeping across the sky. His eyes started to droop, and he fell gratefully into the throes of sleep, giving into his exhaustion. For once, he had no dreams.

“Wake up! Malfoy, wake up!”

Whoever was shaking him awake was going to die. They'd just signed their own death sentence. How dare they wake him up when he was sleeping?

Draco cracked his eyes open, only to get an eyeful of Potter looming over him, an angry expression etched on his face. Even though he was so obviously awake, Potter decided to shake him one last time before moving away from the bed, hands on his hips.

“You were meant to tell me when they released you!” said Harry loudly.

“I forgot, okay?” said Draco, rolling onto his back, arms slapping against the mattress. “They were pushing me out of the door, Potter, what was I supposed to do?”

“Maybe owl me when you got back here?” suggested Potter snidely. “Would've been a smart thing to do.”

“Don't take that tone with me, Potter!” said Draco indignantly, sitting up. Trust Potter to act all self-righteous. When did he ever pass up the opportunity? “I was exhausted. It was an honest mistake. I got home, hadn't slept all night, so I just wanted to go to bed. Does that sit well with you, your Highness?”

Potter's eyes flashed dangerously. His hands curled into fists.

Draco waited, seeing if he would snap.

Sighing, bouncing on his toes to ease tension, Potter said, “Did you read what was in the folder?”

“Of course I did,” said Draco. “Why d'you think I didn't get any sleep last night?”

Potter apparently spotted the folder in the corner, for he visibly started and then went to retrieve it.

“So what do you think?” he asked.

“I think that it should be a load of crap and completely impossible,” said Draco promptly. “Of course, that's only because I'm going through it. To be honest, if I'd have known without having been attacked by a Veela, I probably wouldn't have cared.”

“Slytherin to the end, right?” said Potter conversationally, already shuffling through the parchments. “Doesn't worry you until it affects you, right, the Slytherin way?”

“That's rule number two,” said Draco.

Potter glanced up. “What's rule number one?”

Draco sneered at him. “As if I'm going to tell you, Potter! It's a Slytherin secret!”

“And I suppose Slytherins have a lot of secrets then?”

“More than you're allowed to know, that's for sure.”

“Right.” Potter snorted with laughter. “Actually,” he said, growing serious once more, “I want to ask you something. You're probably going to flip your shit whether I beg you not to anyway …”

“What?” As soon as people told him not to get angry, Draco dreaded what he was about to hear.

“I want to ask Hermione to help me with the research.” Potter said it all in a rush, as if that would curb Draco's temper. He then screwed up his face, waiting for the verbal blast.

A couple of seconds passed, then –

“What?” shrieked Draco. “No!”

Potter held up his hands, one of which still held the folder. “Draco, we could use some help –”

“I don't want anyone to know about what I am!” yelled Draco, leaping to his feet.

“I wouldn't say you specifically, I –”

“Do you even _understand_ what happens to magical non-humans?” Draco almost cried in despair, seeing the confused look on Potter's face. No, he wouldn't understand. Draco shouldn't have been so hopeful thinking that he would at least know a little bit. “Think of old Lupin, and then extend that to everyone who isn't human.”

“I don't –”

“Constant monitoring! Constant! If word of my transformation gets through to the Daily Prophet, they'll want me locked up, because they'll see me as a danger to society. I'll be forced to undergo tests to prove my creature status. Three quarters of the rights we have as wizards will be snatched away. There'll be places – shops, things like that – that I won't be able to go in because I'm not human. _Nobody_ can know.”

Potter chewed on the inside of his lip, from the way that he swayed side to side with a pinched expression, Draco could tell he was waging some kind of internal war with himself.

“But I won't tell her!” he said finally.

Draco threw his head back with a groan, unable to look at Potter. “You just don't get it, do you?”

“Malfoy, I'm trying to help you here!”

“And I appreciate that. I really do. But I can't have anyone find out about me. Not even your precious little friends.” It felt so hot in the room at that moment, making it difficult to breathe. Mumbling obscenities under his breath, he ran to the window and fumbled with the catch to unlock it, shoving it up and sticking his head out to suck in deep, greedy breaths. What a fucking predicament.

“Malfoy, hey, you're not going to have a panic attack on me, are you?”

“I might,” said Draco weakly. “You know, just to spite you and all.”

Potter chuckled, resting a hand on the middle of Draco's back, careful to avoid touching the cuts so he wouldn't cause Draco more pain. “Yeah, you would do that. Prick.”

“Arse.” Draco forced himself not to lean into the touch, no matter how much comfort he wanted to take.

“Get your head out from under the window, it could drop on you.” Potter held the window frame up for Draco, who pulled back and wiped surreptitiously at his face. If Potter noticed a couple of tear tracks staining his cheeks, he possessed enough tact not to say anything. “Just … Malfoy. Just do me a favour, alright?”

“Depends on what type of favour it is.”

“Don't dismiss the idea, okay? Of Hermione helping. She's really good at research, and she could find obscure facts that'd take me centuries to find, if I had that kind of time.”

“I just … I don't want people to know,” mumbled Draco miserably.

“I understand that.”

“Yeah, but will you respect it?” asked Draco, lifting his head to stare solemnly at Potter. “Can I trust that you won't go behind my back and consult Granger anyway? What about – oh, Potter, you're going to work for the Aurors! By law, you'd have to report any magical creature that roams free, and within a few short weeks I'll be one of them. A magical creature. A danger to society.”

“You're not a – Veelas are not dangerous.”

Draco glared at him. “A Veela got me into this mess in the first place with their venom. A little bit more of it and I'd have melted from the inside. Veelas are certainly dangerous creatures, so don't underestimate them.”

“Yeah …” Potter scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, his cheeks a bit red from embarrassment. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Would I be able to stop you if you tried?”

Potter grinned. “No, probably not.”

Draco waved a hand at him, permitting him to speak. “Go on, then.”

“Will you tell me about … about the day you got attacked? By the Veela, I mean.”

The light from the room seemed to seep away, as if the sun had disappeared. Draco's good mood vanished, and he felt like he'd just been stabbed in the gut.

“I don't think that's any of your business,” he whispered, licking his suddenly dry lips.

“No – no it's not. I was only w-wondering.”

“I was attacked and that's all you need to know!” Draco bowed his head, gripping his hair in his hands, trying to control himself before his self-control snapped. “Why would you think it's okay to ask me something like that?”

“I'm – I'm sorry –”

“Damn right you should be sorry!” said Draco loudly, hysterically. “Just because reporters ask you all the time about how you defeated Voldemort doesn't mean it's acceptable to ask people about the worst times in their own life! I didn't think you had much tact to begin with, but I thought you had more than this!”

The world seemed to tilt on its axis for a moment.

Lunging forward, Potter caught Draco before he could fall. “Whoa! Malfoy, Malfoy – sit down a moment, yeah? Calm down. You're working yourself into a state.” An arm around his shoulders and a hand pressed firmly to his chest, Potter led Draco to the bed. “Here, sit down. Dinky!”

Dinky appeared with a crack. “Master Potter is calling Dinky?”

“Could you please get Malfoy – Draco – a glass of water?”

“I is doing that now, sir!” said Dinky eagerly, and disappeared for all of two seconds before she came back with a glass of water in hand, holding it out until Draco's shaking hands accepted it. “Is Dinky to be doing something else, sir?”

“No,” said Draco, sipping at the water. “No, you can go.”

Dinky disappeared again.

Potter sat next to Draco, so close their shoulders brushed. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything. Please forgive me, Malfoy. I should've known better.”

“You should have,” agreed Draco.

“Listen … we'll figure out some way to deal with this, alright? You and I'll – we'll do the research. I won't tell Hermione a thing. Or any of the Weasleys,” he added hastily, when Draco opened his mouth. “Just you and me. How does that sound?”

“Sounds good.” Draco nodded. “I like it better than bringing everyone into it. It's none of their business.”

“It wasn't mine either. Not until you collapsed in front of me.”

“It still wasn't your business then. You made it your business – quite rudely in fact.”

“Yeah, well, I think you're better off that I did rudely make it my business.”

Draco could hardly fault that reasoning. He would've never known he was a Veela had Harry not taken him to the hospital and demanded help, not until his wings came through at least. He took a big gulp of water as his excuse for not responding. He could feel Potter's knowing smile burning holes into the side of his head.

“If you don't mind,” said Draco, “I think I'd like to go back to sleep now.”

“Oh,” said Potter, sounding put-off. “Should I – should I go?”

“No. Someone's got to make some leeway with the research. Call Dinky and she'll show you to the library. Hopefully you'll have something written by the time I wake up.”

“Oh, ha ha,” said Potter sarcastically, standing. The instant he was off the bed, Draco scrambled underneath him – holding the half-full cup away from the bedspread – and collapsed on the pillows. “Oi!”

“Take the cup,” ordered Draco, closing his eyes. “I'm not thirsty anymore.”

“Couldn't you just leave it by the bed?”

“No, I couldn't. Take the cup, Potter, and call Dinky. I'm now officially asleep.”

“Oh really? You sound pretty awake to me, Malfoy –”

“For fuck's sake, Potter, go!” Draco didn't need to be looking at him to know that Potter was grinning like a loon as he left Draco's bedroom. As a result, Draco buried his face into the pillows to hide his own grin.

Wouldn't do to have Potter see him smile.

His reputation to think about, and all.

_You're running through the debris, one hand clutching your wand while your other hand shields your head from oncoming bits of wood and brick that fall from the sky like rain. You have no idea where you're running to. The only thing that motivates you to keep going is that somewhere had to be better than right where you are._

_Trolls roar in fury, spells are screamed at the top of frightened lungs, and people crash into you, running in the all directions. The battle is everywhere and nowhere at once. No one, not even you, can think of where to start firing. With grounds breached and everywhere a travesty of broken, bleeding bodies and the screaming of the injured, ignored and on their way into the arms of Death._

_There are lights, explosions in the forest that catch your eye. Determined, you sprint toward them. If you could prove that you are not cowardly, that you are no longer on the losing side, then all will be okay if you manage to make it through the night._

_Something inhuman, terrifying, shrieks behind you and you turn._

OH MERLIN –

Draco sat upright in bed, gasping for breath. For one wild moment he didn't know where he was; flailing his arms about his head to ward off an attacker, he threw himself sideways and ended up landing in a heap in the middle of the floor, blankets landing half on top of him.

Shuffling around onto his bum, he brought his legs up to his chest, placing his head between his knees and focused on breathing before he ended up hyperventilating.

Adrenaline pumped through his veins, urging him to stand up and do something to get rid of it.

 _Potter's in the library_ , Draco thought to himself. The idea of visiting Potter in the library was vastly more preferable than staying in his room for one moment more. As he stood, the world spun sickly around him; he grasped the frame of the bed for support, swallowing back the bile that rose, burning, in his throat. Finally, he trusted himself to move and, stumbling, made his way outside.

He managed to make it to the library without his vertigo coming back. What he saw inside almost caused him to laugh hysterically – though it wasn't, looking back on it, particularly funny.

“Having fun, are we?” asked Draco, amused, leaning against the frame of the door for support.

Potter sat at the nearest desk, almost hidden completely behind a stack of books that took up all but a small space in front of him, which he used for a stack of blank parchments.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” said Potter, glancing up to glare at Draco. “You could at least help me out.”

“Have you thought that reading one at a time might be easier?” Draco pushed off the door frame, accioed the nearest chair and sat down. He wanted to take a book from the pile closest to him, but in the faint breeze coming from the open window behind them the stack wobbled. “Just a helpful suggestion, there.”

“I _am_ reading one book at a time,” said Potter, somewhat irritably. If it was possible, his hair was even wilder than usual. “These are all the books I could find that mentioned Veelas.”

“If these piles fall and crush you, you'll only have yourself to blame.”

“I'm aware of that, Malfoy.”

All this bickering helped to calm Draco down and forget the dreams. He never wanted to dream again, but he couldn't take Dreamless Sleep potion out of fear that if he started, he'd never stop.

“Where do you want me to start?” he asked.

“Grab any book that's not on the floor.”

That was when Draco noticed that Potter had at least seven books sitting by his feet.

“Oh, joy,” he muttered sarcastically, grabbing a book at random.

The middle stack collapsed. Potter barely got his hands up in time before books came toppling down on him. Draco threw his head back and laughed as Potter swore at the top of his voice.

“Damn it, Malfoy!”

*

Over the course of the next few days, Draco and Potter got nowhere in their research. In many of the books they read (or, in Potter's case, skimmed through) much of the information about Veelas was common knowledge.

“Listen to this!” Potter burst out, slamming the old, dusty book he held onto the table. Draco winced, hoping the spine hadn't broken under the rough treatment. “' _Under no circumstances have any Veela been created_ ' – I'm paraphrasing, by the way, this version of English is almost unreadable. I'm pretty sure this book was new when everyone started thinking the world was flat. Where was I? Oh, yeah … ' _Under no circumstances have any Veela been created; evidence shows that Veela are born to parents where only one, or sometimes both, are of Veela heritage_ '. Ha! I'd like to show the author of this trash our predicament right now. Would make him eat the book, it would!”

Draco shook his head, his lips twitching wryly. “Put that book down with the rest of them, then, because from that paragraph alone we can tell it won't be much help.”

Good riddance,” said Potter, as he slammed the book shut and tossed it down with the others. It landed on the top of the pile, wobbled for a moment and then sent books sliding in all directions. “Eh. I'll pick them up in a minute.”

Draco pursed his lips, thinking about reprimanding Potter and ordering him to pick the books up, but decided against it. There were more important things to do than to pick up fallen books.

“I don't think we're going to find anything in here.” Potter slammed another book shut after only fifteen minutes of skimming through it. “You know …” He leaned forward, planting an elbow on the table. The action caused Draco to look up at him over the top of his book. “This would be a lot easier if we had Hermione's help.”

“I already told you what I thought of bringing more people into this,” said Draco sharply. “I don't want anyone to know anything about me – especially not _this_.”

“Hermione wouldn't tell anyone,” said Potter beseechingly. “All she'd want to do is research Veela, probably. You remember how she was in –”

A beeping sound cut across Potter, and Draco jumped, losing his grip on his book which fell to the ground before he could catch it, several pages bending.

“Ah, shit,” said Potter, pulling out his wand. The tip glowed red. “ _Invocatio_.”

The wand stopped glowing red, but a jet of silver mist poured out, coalescing into a cloud, hovering right by Potter. Draco watched, intrigued, as Robards, Head Auror, appeared in the centre of the mist.

“Return to the DMLE, Auror Trainee Potter,” he said sharply, in a no-nonsense tone that had Potter sitting up straight. “We have an assignment for you.”

“I'll be there shortly,” said Potter, inclining his head.

Robards mimicked the action. Then Potter's wand seemed to vibrate on its own accord, and the mist was sucked back up into the wand tip.

“Never seen that before,” said Draco, as Potter stood up, his knee banging against the table; he swore loudly and creatively. “Is that a recent invention?”

“Yeah,” said Potter. He yawned, stretching his arms above his head. “It's much simpler than using a Patronus, and it has less of a chance of being spotted by criminals. The sound of the beeping only travels about two feet before it stops, so it has less of a chance of being picked up by criminals. Handy spell.”

“What was the incantation?”

“ _Invocatio_.”

“Latin for invocation,” said Draco, nodding. He made a mental note to ask Potter to teach him. “I see.”

“Listen, I don't know when I'll be back, alright?” said Potter, pushing his chair underneath the table with his foot. “Could be in a few hours, could be in a few days. You gonna be alright until then?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I can actually get on without you looking over my shoulder,” said Draco, his lips twisting. “I've got a couple of pain potions locked away and dozens of books to get through. I won't be bored or in pain. Get going and save the world before it crumbles.”

“I thought you said pain potions didn't work on you?” asked Potter.

“They don't, not unless I have more than what I'm supposed to,” said Draco. “I'm thinking that the less human I become, the less chance I have at overdosing on it.”

“You sure that's safe?” asked Potter, concerned.

“If it isn't, I have house elves I can call on,” said Draco, with a one-shoulder shrug. “Can't hurt to try.”

“Well … okay, then. Just be careful, alright?”

“Why Potter, it almost sounds like you care what happens to little old me.”

“Shush. Of course I care. I'm not heartless.” Potter cleared his throat. “So, can I use your Floo?”

“Sure.” Draco stood. “I'll show you to it.”

“I know where it is, Malfoy,” said Potter, amused.

“Yes, I know that, but it's seen as good manners to show a guest out.” Draco brushed imaginary lint off his shirt. “Follow me, then.”

He led Potter toward the Floo. The two of them walked so close together that their arms brushed sometimes. Draco couldn't help but smile each time it happened, a little jolt going through him. When they reached the Floo, he hastily wiped away the smile and donned his mask of indifference.

“There you are, Potter,” he said, gesturing to the fireplace as if Potter hadn't seen it already.

“Thanks, Malfoy,” said Potter. He grabbed a handful of Floo powder, stepped into the fireplace and said, “I'll see you soon. Ministry of Magic!” and threw the powder down. Draco barely blinked at the explosion of green flames that whisked Potter away.

*

Harry landed in one of the many fireplaces of the Ministry's atrium. After years of practice, he didn't fall out any more. Stepping out, he brushed the soot off his clothes and strode toward the DMLE.

When he got there, the first thing he saw was Robards talking to a small group of Aurors in a low mutter. They were nodding at whatever he was saying, all wearing matching expressions of seriousness.

“Auror Potter,” said Robards, noticing Harry when he walked in. “Get over here.”

“What's going on, Auror Robards?” asked Harry, moving to stand in between Auror Mollie Jackson and Auror William Jensen.

“We have a trafficking ring on our hands,” said Robards quietly. “A Veela trafficking ring.”

Harry's heart leapt in his chest, thinking about Malfoy.

“They've been operating underground for a good five months now,” continued Robards. “We've come close to bringing down the organisation once before, but they managed to escape. It is of the utmost importance that you do not let them see you. Arrest who you must, but do so quietly.”

“What about the Veelas?” asked Auror Jackson, sweeping her hair up into a ponytail. “What do we do with them?”

“As much as we are here to save them, if they're not alone and if they start making racket – and they're good at that, Veelas – then leave them,” said Robards. “Regular silencing charms don't work on them for very long. Save who you can, arrest whoever you think is part of this ring. But we _cannot_ let them get away, do you all understand?” There was a general murmur of assent. Robards inclined his head, staring them all down. “They've escaped me before, and I'll be damned if I let them do it again.”

What were the odds of a Veela trafficking ring popping up at the same time that Malfoy was changing into one? Before he could stop himself, Harry asked, “How rare are Veela trafficking rings?”

“Not very rare,” said Auror Robards. “On average, we take down five trafficking rings a year, with around three escaping our grasp.”

Several people gasped.

“Imagine if ya could turn a human into a Veela,” said Auror Griffin. “Good thing ya can't, otherwise we'd have a lot more trouble on a hands, ya know?”

Harry opened his mouth, but shut it quickly. If he corrected Griffin, then he would want to know where he got the information from, and then he'd have no choice but to give away Malfoy's secret. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Robards give him an odd look.

Auror Robards gave Auror Griffin a sharp look. “Do not let any of the Veela traders out of your sight and do not let them know you're there. Do I make myself clear?”

Auror Griffin bobbed his head in agreement, rocking back on his heels. He was always a cheerful man, even during the times it would've been better for everyone if he was just a little more serious. After the third week of his training, Robards stopped telling him off for being so carefree because there was just no point. There were some lessons that just weren't meant to take.

Amongst the trainees were seasoned Aurors, who had been with the DMLE for a good five to ten years now. They all bore scars on their hands and faces, possibly more underneath their robes, and had the same grim, haunted looks in their eyes.

“Right,” said Robards. He eyed them all beadily, his tongue flitting out to wet his lips. “You all know where you're Apparating to?” He waited for everyone to nod, Auror Mollie whispered the location into Harry's ear. Harry nodded and thanked her under his breath. She beamed at him. “Good. Get to the Apparition points.”

There were three Apparition points with three people assigned to each. The plan of attack was to converge on the site from different areas in the hopes to create a perimeter around the illegal Veela traders. Before this plan of attack had been thought of, at most only two had ever been caught and put behind bars.

As they were leaving, Ron came out of his office. Ron's position, whilst being in the field occasionally, was tactical defence. He was the one who thought up strategies to apprehend criminals. After his first suggestion worked brilliantly, Robards gave him more cases to plan strategies for, and when five out of seven of his plans worked, it became his full-time occupation. Ron loved the work, always saying that it suited him a lot more than running around chasing criminals. It was true.

“Stay safe, mate,” said Ron, clapping Harry on the shoulder as he passed.

“Will do,” said Harry, returning the gesture.

While he did feel nervous about going off into the unknown and taking down criminals whose power he had never faced before, he felt excited. He loved the adrenaline rush that the job provided. Whenever he was forced to sit at a desk for long periods of time doing paperwork, he felt like his very soul was rotting. He needed danger, a challenge – and he'd certainly picked the right job to get it.

“Listen, Harry, if you come back safe Hermione and I want you to come to dinner Friday night,” said Ron.

“Yeah, sure,” said Harry. It was Wednesday, and if the case wrapped up tonight, he'd have a day with Malfoy tomorrow researching Veela and hopefully Friday all to himself before dinner.

“Potter!” called Mollie. “You comin' or what?”

“Gotta go,” said Harry to Ron, barely sparing the time to hear Ron say goodbye before he ran after Mollie to the Apparition point.

*

Something was wrong.

Draco stood up, abandoning the book he'd been skimming through. He stalked to the nearest bathroom – down the corridor, sharp right, third door on the left – only to break into a run just as he passed through the library doors. He almost slipped turning the corner, and only managed to save himself thanks to his sharp reflexes, throwing out his hands to catch himself on the wall.

His fingers trembled as he undid the buttons of his shirt, getting stuck on the last four and ended up ripping the shirt off without undoing them, buttons flying in all directions. Finally, when the shirt was thrown off somewhere to his left, he turned his back to the mirror, and looked over his shoulder to inspect it.

What had prompted him to realise that something was wrong was that his whole body had gone numb at once. He hadn't taken any pain potions yet and had been dealing with the returning ache of the cuts on his back for around fifteen minutes, when numbness swept through him from the top of his head down to the tips of his toes. Everything except his back had gone back to normal within seconds.

His jaw dropped when he saw what was happening in the mirror.

The wings were pushing through his skin. At first it was a feather, and then it was many feathers, until the actual wing tip started wriggling through the flaps of skin, clots of blood flying in all directions as it moved. Draco didn't feel a thing. From the way that it looked, he was glad that he couldn't.

The bones in his wings broke as they were forced through the narrow slits of the cuts on his shoulder blades; once they were free, the bones snapped back into place. Draco felt no pain. It was like watching a sapling – a very bloody sapling – grow into a very large tree, only a hundred times faster as his wings protruded and grew steadily larger by the second.

Finally, great white wings (well, almost white; they were soaked in blood) arched out behind him. Six feet in length and covered in feathers. Experimentally, Draco tried to make them move a little; they flapped so wildly that they knocked everything off the basin, onto the floor. Then, horrifically, all the feathers dropped off.

 _Wait, was that supposed to happen?_ he thought wildly. Did he just ruin his wings?

After waiting a couple of minutes to see if more feathers would grow (they didn't) he decided that maybe that was just supposed to happen. The edges of his wings looked as sharp as razor blades, shining pure white now that they were no longer covered in blood. Draco supposed that the feathers were meant to protect the wings from blood and bone when they were inside his skin. Bending down, he picked up a feather and gasped. It was thicker than what he thought it would be, like the spine of a quill, and weighed the same as a Galleon. Definitely to protect his wings, then.

 _Wait until Potter gets a look at this!_ he thought gleefully.

*

“Alright,” said Harry in a low voice. “ _Invocatio tres_ , Auror Jensen, Auror Griffin, Auror Blackwood!”

Harry and the other three Aurors stood at the fire exit door on the left of the ramshackle building. It was the only building for miles around, lost in the rolling hills and meadows. Not too far away there was a crossroads, with all four dirt paths leading off into the intimidating shadows of the distant trees.

Within five seconds of each other, all three answered the call.

“Are you all at your stations?” asked Harry.

“Affirmative,” said Auror Griffin. Harry felt Mollie crowd in close to him, whilst the other two Aurors stood back, watching.

Someone inside the building screamed.

“Auror Potter,” said Griffin sharply. “Keep your lot outside the building. Tell Auror Blackwood to do the same. My team will go in.”

Auror Griffin ended the spell.

Aurors Blackwood and Jensen nodded his head to Harry and did the same.

Harry heard the precise moment when Griffin's team burst through the door and attacked. Several people shouted, more than a few incoherently screamed, and several Veela shrieked so loudly that the hair on Harry's head stood on end. He gripped his wand tightly as he and his team moved closer to the door, waiting for people to burst out of it. Like hell was he going to allow any one of the bastard Veela traders escape.

*

Harry itched with the urge to burst through the door and shoot curses in every direction. To watch as criminals hit the floor, unconscious, and have the law thrown at them like a brick to the head.

It was frustrating that he couldn't do that.

Several bang, explosions and shrieks echoed from inside. Harry's nerves were on end; he was ready for anything to happen.

Auror Mollie stepped up beside him, placed a hand on his shoulder and dragged him back.

“You might want to stand a bit back from that door,” she said. “Otherwise you'll get knocked out if someone comes through it.”

Harry hadn't thought of that. “Thank you, Auror Mollie.”

“Just call me Mollie,” she said with a grim smile.

It was a few minutes later that someone finally burst out of the fire door. No alarms were triggered, however, as the first things that the traders would've done was disable them. Harry rushed forward, grabbing the man around the throat with his forearm, dragging him back before he could make it to any Apparition point.

The man shot a stinging hex at Harry's foot. Only by luck did Harry manage to avoid it.

“Take his wand!” Harry shouted, fighting with the man to take him to his knees.

“Expelliarmus!” shouted Mollie, and caught the man's wand as it flew through the air.

“Fucking bastards!” shouted the man. “Fuck the fucking lot of you!”

Auror Rowell came rushing forward; he was the most adept at handcuff charms. Within seconds, the man's hands were wrestled behind his back and the handcuffs charmed securely in place around his wrists.

“Potter, you take that man back to HQ,” said Auror Rowell. “Roux, Jackson and I will stay here and make sure no one else comes out.”

“You want me to come back when I've done it?”

“No. Just go, and make sure you don't lose him.”

Harry nodded. “Alright.”

He led the hissing and spitting man to the Apparition point, ignoring his cuss words and his threats for revenge. Criminals all said the same things when they were captured.

To say that Robards was very happy about this arrest would be an understatement.

“I've been after this man for a long time,” he said to Harry, practically salivating. “This man has always been labelled as the ring-leader of whatever organisation he happens to be in – but he's always avoided arrest. I've been about ready to yank my hair out in frustration for years.”

“What's his name?” asked Harry.

“Blake Worthington.” Robards drew himself up to his fullest height, towering over Harry. They watched, through a one-way mirror, Worthington fiddle around with the magical cuffs that now bound him to the steel table bolted to the ground. “When the other Aurors get back, we'll question him. For now, I want you to keep an eye on him. He has a reputation that paints him as slippery as a snake. _Do not_ lose him.”

Robards' shoulder banged into Harry's as he walked out of the room, the narrow room not leaving much space to walk without bumping into things. Harry sighed, throwing himself into the only chair in the room, preparing to sit there for another hour at least, twiddling his thumbs. 

*

It took another day before they were able to question Worthington. Ten arrests had been made in total, sixteen Veelas to figure out what to do with, and four deaths (three traders, one Veela). All in all, Harry reckoned he'd be drowning in paperwork by the time everything was sorted out.

Finally, on Thursday night, Robards, Harry and Mollie went in to question Worthington.

“You reek of Veela,” said Worthington, chuckling, as they walked in.

“Well, we've been dealing with your Veela ring, haven't we?” snarled Robards.

“Not you lot,” said Worthington, waving a hand at Robards and Mollie. “You,” he said to Harry.

Harry immediately thought of Malfoy. He fought to keep his face expressionless, all the while he spared a moment to wonder how Malfoy was doing. The second he was out of here, Harry would go check on him.

“Don't know what you're talking about,” said Harry.

“Smells distinctly … male. A _male_ Veela.” Worthington closed his eyes in relish. “I love the male ones. They react with much more … how would you put it? … _Terror_ when you break them. When you tear their wings off, like they're made of paper, it's so fun to watch the males scream and writhe along the floor, covered in their own blood.”

Harry's fists clenched behind his back.

“You're confessing to what you've done?” asked Robards.

“Might as well,” said Worthington. “I won't be staying long in Azkaban once you put me there. There's no point in pretending that I'm innocent, wouldn't you think?”

“Rest assured,” said Worthington, catching Harry's gaze and holding it. “When I find your Veela – and believe me, I _will_ find him – I'll make sure he knows what it's like to bleed out all over the floor. Before I sell him, that is. Can't have a Veela who can fly away from the buyer.”

Harry almost blew his cover by reaching over the table and punching Worthington's nose back up into his skull. But he couldn't let anyone know that he was frequently in the company of Malfoy, a turning Veela. He wouldn't break Malfoy's trust like that.

“Lie all you want about not having a Veela of your own,” said Worthington gleefully. “But when you've worked with Veelas as long as I have, you start to recognise the distinctive smell that sets Veelas apart from us humans.” He sat forward. “And I will find him, your Veela. I always find them, in the end.”

“I think we have enough here to secure a trial and arrest,” said Robards, standing. He looked utterly disgusted at Worthington. “Potter, Jackson, leave the room now.”

 _Gladly_ , thought Harry. Once they were back in the break room, Harry said to Mollie, “Cover me for a few hours, will you? I have stuff I need to take care of.” He needed to see Malfoy and make sure he was okay.

Mollie nodded. Then she hesitated. “You don't really have a Veela do you?”

“No, I don't,” said Harry truthfully, for he didn't have Malfoy – and Merlin did that sound like he owned Malfoy or something. It was difficult to think of Malfoy letting anyone own him. “I'll be back soon.”

“Sure,” she said. “See you soon.”

Harry nodded to her, then left.

*

“Master Draco.”

Draco jumped, dropping his book. Shit, he'd been dozing off. “What is it?”

The house elf, Junky, said, “Master Draco, Harry Potter is being in the fire asking for permission to come inside, sir, and Junky is wondering whether he should be letting him inside?”

“Yes, yes – go and let Harry Potter inside, Junky, and tell him I'll be down in a moment.” Draco leapt to his feet, then stumbled. He'd been sitting for so long his legs had gone to sleep.

Junky bowed to Draco, then vanished.

How was Draco supposed to go about introducing Potter to his new wings? “Hello, Potter, how're you doing? Oh, the wings? Yeah, grew them myself.” Wait, would that work?

With a jolt, he realised he spent at least two minutes thinking about it. Merlin, it wouldn't matter anyway. Running his fingers through his hair to make sure that at least that was presentable, he went downstairs to meet Potter.

Potter looked anxious as Draco walked into the sitting room. He faced away from Draco, looking out the French doors to the gardens beyond. He chewed on his thumbnail, a nasty habit that Draco thought to break.

“Potter,” said Draco. “I thought you'd be away a lot longer than this.”

Potter whipped around, a wild expression in his eyes. “M-Malfoy?”

“Who else would live here?” asked Draco, smirking. It faded when the anxious expression didn't waver, and he frowned at Potter in concern. “Are you okay? Not going to faint on me Pot –”

He was cut off by Potter storming across the room and throwing his arms around Draco's neck. Draco flailed momentarily, having expected some kind of attack. Hugging was not what he'd had in mind.

“Now I'm definitely worried,” said Draco, his words muffled by Potter's shoulder. This felt … kind of nice, actually. “Should I be the one taking you to St. Mungo's now?”

Potter started laughing – or Draco assumed he was laughing. The shaking of Potter's shoulders could have been laughter or sobs. Honestly, it was starting to worry Draco now. He wasn't even hugging back; his arms were raised, sure, but they hovered just behind Potter's back, not touching him at all.

“Sorry, sorry,” said Potter finally, releasing Draco and stepping back. “Just got a little overwhelmed – oh man, do you have _wings_? When did that happen?”

“Last night,” said Draco, and his wings twitched. “It's been an odd day, getting used to them and all.”

Draco smelled something odd. He tilted his head back and sniffed at the air, trying to decipher what the scent was.

“What is it?” asked Potter. “What's wrong?”

“I smell other Veelas,” said Draco. “It's coming from your direction.”

“It was the case I was working on,” said Potter, and to Draco's ears he sounded a bit guilty. “Can't disclose any information about it just yet.”

Draco didn't like that Potter smelled of other Veelas. His wings flapped rather violently, causing Potter's eyes to widen in alarm, and he stepped back cautiously.

“Are you okay, Malfoy?” asked Potter.

“I'm fine,” said Draco in a low, controlled voice. He couldn't kick up a fuss like he wanted to if Potter really did smell like other Veelas because of a case. If he had been fraternising willingly outside of work with another Veela, _then_ he'd have a good reason. “Tell me why you got so emotional back there?”

“Just something that happened during the case that got me a bit worked up, that's all,” said Potter, blushing.

“Right,” said Draco slowly.

“Have you – have you found anything new about Veelas?”

“Nothing,” said Draco sadly. “I'm thinking of updating the library a bit. Father hadn't bothered to do it because he was too busy – well, you know exactly what he was doing. Each generation of Malfoy is supposed to update the library with books that covers a different topic, or expands and corrects subjects of old books. Father slacked off in more ways than one.”

Potter looked like he was about to say something scathing or sarcastic, but thought better about it and kept quiet. Good call, Draco thought. Otherwise there would've been a confrontation and, possibly, a physical fight. As much as a fuck-up Lucius Malfoy turned out to be, he was still Draco's father.

“Look, I'm going to dinner tomorrow night with Ron and Hermione,” said Potter, “at least let me try and get Hermione's help without actually saying that the Veela I'm helping is you.”

“I've already told you –”

“You've just said that there's nothing interesting or helpful in your library,” said Potter loudly, talking right over the top of Draco. “And you can't step outside the Manor if you don't want people to know that you're a Veela. You're in a shitty situation, so let me do something to help.”

Draco sighed, relenting. “If you even give her a hint that it's me she's helping, then I'll personally rip you limb from limb the next time I see you. Got it?”

As he processed Draco's words, Potter grinned so broadly it looked like his face was in danger of splitting in half.

“Thanks Malfoy!” said Potter. “Knew you'd see it my way.”

“Don't fuck it up,” said Draco.

“Draco?” The only reason Draco heard Narcissa's voice in the first place was that the mostly empty room allowed for even the softest of sounds to echo. “I heard voices.”

The smile on Potter's face dropped, as if someone had wiped it away with their hand.

“Mother,” said Draco, turning. “You remember Harry Potter, right?”

“How do you do, Mrs. Malfoy?” said Potter, even going as far as to bow to her. However, Narcissa's eyes remained fixed on Draco.

“You have wings,” she said. “Like an angel.”

There were black shadows under her eyes, and her skin was tinged grey. She mustn't have been sleeping well, Draco surmised. She wore the same nightdress she'd been wearing three days ago.

“I always knew you were an angel,” she said tonelessly. Her unblinking stare unnerved Draco. Every day Narcissa seemed less and less like his mother. It was as if someone had rebuilt her knowing only the rudimentary things about her, creating a cheap, flawed copy that didn't hold a candle to the original. “Such pretty wings …”

Just as quickly as she'd arrived, she walked off again.

“She looks terrible,” said Potter sadly.

“She's not taking any of this well,” said Draco, tears stinging his eyes. He doubted he would ever get used to the shadow of Narcissa. “She hasn't been her usual self since the war ended.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No,” said Draco, but oh he wished there was. He wished he could snap his fingers, or say an incantation, and get his mother back. But he knew from experience that life was never that easy. “No, there's not.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. There's no point.”

“Right.” Potter looked uncomfortable, scratching the back of his neck out of a lack of anything better to do with himself. “Look, I promised another Auror I'd be back as quickly as possible …”

“Say no more,” said Draco, waving his left hand about the air, his left wing imitating the action. Potter chuckled at the sight, trying unsuccessfully to stifle it behind his fist. “Go back to the DMLE. I'll be fine here.”

“I'll talk to Hermione tomorrow,” said Potter. “I'll send an owl to tell you what she says. Tomorrow is going to be the day where I just laze around and do nothing until dinner.”

“Sure,” said Draco. “Get going before I have you thrown out.”

He was joking, and from the grin on Potter's face, he knew that too.

“See you later, Malfoy,” said Potter, as he headed for the Floo.

“Goodbye, Potter,” said Draco.

It didn't occur to him this time to show Potter to the Floo like a proper host.


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3

*

The moment that Draco woke up the next morning, he knew it was going to be a bad day.

He thought about staying in bed until tomorrow morning in the hopes that he'd avoid whatever bad thing was undoubtedly coming, but he forced himself to get up anyway, stretching out his wings (and knocking over a candle holder, which he left there out of pure laziness) to bring back sensation in them. He'd have to work out how not to sleep on his wings from now on.

Today, he'd try to work on how to make his wings disappear so that they wouldn't garner even more attention for him if he decided to go out in public. Just being Draco Malfoy was enough, thank you very much.

He thought about ordering breakfast up to his room like he normally did, but he thought back to the fiasco with the tea kettle not too long ago and bit his lip. After all this time getting his food served to him, not knowing how to cook it for himself, Draco was starting to get tired of it. It was something that would've made his family – from five years ago, when everything was normal – clutch their chests in horror. A Malfoy cook for himself? Unheard of! Why bother when they had servants?

But life after the war had changed Draco more than he'd been able to realise at first. He found himself wanting to know what he'd taken for granted as a child.

It was with that thought in the forefront of his mind that went down to the kitchens with the intention of asking them to teach him to cook. And this time, he'd try not to destroy the kitchen and terrify the house elves. Try being the operative word.

“Master Draco!” squeaked several house elves when Draco entered the kitchen. It didn't escape his notice that several pairs of eyes darted toward the tea kettle. Although he was a bit rankled by it, he let it go. He hadn't been at the top of his game last time he'd been in there and he found no point in pretending otherwise.

Tipsy stepped forward. She was the youngest and boldest of the Malfoy family house elves.

“Is you being wanting anything?” she asked, bowing.

Now that he was in here, Draco almost second-guessed himself. Surrounded by house elves that could cook and clean for him, it now seemed so stupid to want to learn how to do it for himself. But still, Draco had made his mind up before he came in, and now he wouldn't let anything change it.

“Yes,” he said. “I want you to teach me how to cook.”

Everyone was silent for a few moments. If the house elves had been human beings, and not creatures that had to bend to the will of said human beings, Draco was sure they would've laughed at him. Meanwhile, Draco had the feeling that generations of Malfoys were now turning in their graves, or at least stirring up their dust particles.

“Is Master Draco really wanting that?” asked Gippy carefully, his great pointy ears twitching.

“I wouldn't have said I wanted it if I didn't,” said Draco challengingly, and watched as Gippy squeaked and slammed his fist into the ground hard enough to at least bruise bone. Each house elf had their own preferred method of self-inflicting pain. “Now, are you going to show me, or are you going to punish yourselves?”

“We is showing you, sir, we is showing you now!”

All of the house elves hastened to prepare things for Draco.

“Is Master Draco wanting to try the tea kettle first, sir?” asked a house elf that Draco didn't know the name of. This one was rarely seen out of the kitchens, to the best of Draco's knowledge.

Draco wanted to hurl the tea kettle through the nearest closed window just to hear the delightful sound of glass shattering. He wanted to hear it and know that he had gotten his revenge on the object that had humiliated him so much for his inability to utilise it when a bunch of house elves could probably figure it out with their eyes closed. However, he grudgingly accepted that it was his own fault and not the tea kettle's fault that he couldn't use it.

“Yes,” said Draco. He thought it would be a brilliant place to start learning. “Yes, I would.”

The best way to get over his humiliation was to fix the problem, after all. When it was fixed, there'd be no reason to be humiliated in the first place. It was a simple remedy.

But as soon as he got started, he started to wonder if maybe the contraption would defeat him. It was complex in its simplicity. He just didn't get it. After all this time he thought that the house elves just heated the water up with magic, but Mopsy the house elf had squeaked, when he'd said as much to them, “Oh no, sir! We is liking to use other methods, sir, to house chores. We is needing to get hot water to our masters quickly, sir, so that we is not being punished.”

“Yes, but how do you make the water hot?” he asked. “I just … can't understand.”

“It is needing a hot surface, sir,” said Mopsy. She beckoned him over eagerly to the fireplace. “Place in here!”

“Wait, that's it?” asked Draco, when he placed the kettle on the hook at the top of the fireplace. He watched, feeling like an idiot, when Mopsy clicked her fingers and a fire appeared in the grate, crackling merrily, the flames licking the bottom of the kettle. “That's all you do?”

“Yes, sir, that is all we is doing,” said Mopsy, pulling at the edges of her pillowcase dress as she rocked back on the heels of her feet, beaming.

“Guess it's not as complicated as I thought,” muttered Draco, biting the inside of his lip. “How do you know when it's time to pull off the hook?”

“When the kettle is whistling, sir,” said Mopsy. “That is when we is taking it off the hook, sir.”

Another house elf came toddling up to Draco holding a cup with a teabag in it, which he held out to Draco, muttering, “Is for you, Master Draco, sir.”

Draco took it wordlessly, nodding his head at the house elf, who fled back to the corner of the kitchen where he'd come from. Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed a couple of the house elves staring at his wings, which twitched minutely, unable to keep still for very long. He wanted to snap at them, demand what the hell they were looking at, but he bit his lip and kept his mouth shut.

The kettle began to whistle minutes later; a shrill sound that made Draco leap back and go for his wand, almost expecting a banshee attack.

“It is ready, sir!” said Mopsy excitedly, while Flicky, a quite shy house elf who refused to speak unless asked a direct question, held out a pair of thick gloves for Draco to take. “The gloves is so you isn't burning your hands when you is picking the kettle up, sir,” she explained. “Is quite hot.”

Putting on the gloves, Draco grasped the handle and felt the heat run through the material to his palm without causing any real discomfort, and put it down on the counter where instructed. At Mopsy's insistence, he poured water into the mug with the tea bag in it, watching in fascination as the clear liquid slowly turned brown. After a bit, he took the bag out, put milk and sugar into the cup and stirred, and ta-da! He had made a cup of tea.

Was it really that easy? Draco couldn't believe it. After years – a whole lifetime, in fact – of not knowing, he'd made his first cup of tea. He had seen people make their tea before, watched them dip those tea bags into the water and watch as the liquid changed colour. But before, when he'd never had to make one for himself, it had seemed rather complex. He'd settled with having it made for him.

But it had been so easy. And what's more, he wanted to make another one, just to see – to prove – that it hadn't been a fluke.

When he drank his tea, he found that it actually tasted better than when the house elves made it. He reasoned that it was probably because it was the first he'd ever made and the victorious feeling had yet to abate. With his luck, the next cup of tea he made would probably taste like shite.

“Congratulations, Master Draco, sir!” squeaked Mopsy. Behind her, the house elves all tittered in agreement. “Is we teaching you to cook next?”

“Tomorrow,” said Draco firmly. “You can teach me tomorrow.”

He wanted time to think up all of his favourite meals that he wanted to learn how to make for himself. That, and he wanted to savour today's victory just a little longer.

*

After two hours of practising in the mirror, Draco managed to get the tips of his wings to disappear. Progress was progress, even if it was only a little bit. He figured out that he really had to want them to hide and focus intensely on what he wanted to disappear. He'd tried to get both wings to disappear at once, but the effort was much too great and he almost gave himself a migraine. Until he got better at it, to the point where he'd no longer have to think so hard to make the wings disappear, he'd just have to do it little by little and practice every day.

“Come on!” he said to the mirror, staring at his wings. He hadn't closed his eyes to make the tips disappear, but now he figured he'd have to. Squeezing his eyes shut, he begged for the wings to disappear entirely for several minutes. Opening his eyes, he saw that half the wings were gone. He looked stupid with the lower half of the wings still flapping. “Oh, for the love of –”

It took him another half an hour to get the wings to disappear completely. He smiled tiredly at his reflection when he was done. Now he looked like his old self, before he'd been attacked. Kind of. His eyes were drawn to the spot on his torso where his scars were, hidden by his shirt.

He walked out of the bathroom ramrod straight, as if bending his spine would cause his wings to materialise again. Well, they could do, he reasoned. He wasn't an expert on wings and what they did.

On his way to the library for some recreational reading, he ran through the list of his favourite recipes that he'd like to learn. And oh, there were many.

*

“Harry!” said Hermione, standing to wrap her arm around Harry's neck and pull him in for a friendly kiss on the cheek. Ron stood too, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “How are you?”

“I'm good, I'm good,” said Harry. “Did you guys order?”

“We were waiting for you,” said Hermione, a bit breathlessly, as they all sat down. She fiddled with the front of her blue dress robes, brushing out imaginary wrinkles. “I heard you went on a raid?”

Harry glanced at Ron, who shifted in his seat a tad guiltily, singling himself out as the person who had told Hermione in the first place.

“Yeah, I did,” said Harry. “It was a Veela trafficking ring.”

“That's awful!” gasped Hermione, her hands flying to her mouth. “Did you catch anyone?”

“The ringleader, yeah. Right now he's being questioned.”

“Good,” said Hermione. “It's awful the way Veelas are treated, like they're less than human! Did you know it was obligatory for them to find their mate before the age of twenty-one, where if they remained unmated after that time they'd be married off to the highest bidder? That, of course, was at least five hundred years ago and thankfully things have changed since then, but honestly the lives of Veelas could be improved more by –”

“May I take your order?” said the waiter, smoothly interrupting Hermione, whose cheeks had gone slightly pink during her rant from holding her breath. When they gave their orders to the waiter, he bowed to them and said, “It shall be ready in a jiff” before he spun on his heels and strolled away.

“Lovely service,” said Hermione, drumming her fingers on the table. “Now, where was I?”

“Hermione,” said Ron, laying a hand on her elbow. “We're here to eat and have a good time, not to sit here and listen to you lecture us. Remember?”

Hermione sighed, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Yes, yes. I'm sorry. It's just … it's awful, isn't it? The treatment of magical creatures, I mean. Just because they're not classified as human doesn't mean they're worth less than one.”

“We agree,” said Harry, thinking about Malfoy and how he was terrified to let people know that he was now a Veela and not a human.

Hermione must've seen an odd expression on Harry's face, for she frowned pensively at him and canted her head. “Right,” she said. “Harry are you okay?”

“What?” asked Harry, bewildered. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, I'm fine.”

“Okay,” she replied, in a tone that implied that she didn't believe him. “Right, well, did I ever mention to you both about the time last week where Emilie Jones …”

It was a peaceful evening after that. Hermione regaled them with the story of how Emilie Jones had mixed up her memos for the third time and sent her inquiries about house elf relations to the Department of Magical Sports and Games and received a rather frosty, “Dear Ms. Jones, learn your charms properly. We're not the Head of the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures” in response. Harry and Ron listened as attentively as they could, even though Hermione wasn't the best storyteller and had the propensity to ramble and lose track of what she was saying for a good twenty seconds before correcting herself.

During the time she was speaking, their dinner came. Both Harry and Ron ate with gusto, nodding and humming at the right moments and sharing amused looks when Hermione wasn't looking. Hermione, for the most part, picked at her food, only taking mouthfuls when she paused in her story to think about what she was going to say next.

“Anyway,” she said, once she'd finished her story. “What has been happening with you, Harry? I've hardly had a chance to catch up with you these last few weeks.”

Harry's mind instantly went to Malfoy and all the research he'd been doing about Veelas to help him, but checked himself before he could say anything about it to them. Knowing Ron, the gossip would be spread around the Ministry and the tabloids before morning. And although Malfoy had given Harry permission to ask for Hermione's help, he didn't want his identity divulged to her, worried about what would happen to him if his new species status was found out. Hiding this from his friends was beginning to cause a physical ache in his chest. He'd never hidden something from them since the battle of Hogwarts.

“Nothing much,” he said, as nonchalantly as he could. “Just the raid, as you know.”

“You haven't met anyone?” asked Hermione shrewdly. “No dates, nothing?”

“I've been too busy with work to think of any of that stuff.”

“Oh, Harry … Ever since you and Ginny broke up after the war, you've not tried to see anyone else,” she said, looking at him as though he were a lost puppy in a rain shower. “Look, there are some people in my department that you might be interested in …”

“No, Hermione,” said Harry sharply. “I'm not interested in dating anyone just yet.”

Her shoulders dropped. “Harry –”

“I'm not lonely,” he said, cutting across her before she could lecture him or something to that effect. “Just because I'm not romantically attached to someone doesn't mean I'm lonely.”

Hermione floundered for a moment. “I never said you were lonely!”

“You didn't have to.”

Ron cleared his throat pointedly. “How about them Cannons?”

“This is not the time to be talking about Quidditch, Ron!” said Hermione, rounding on him. Her eyes flashed dangerously. “ _Honestly_!”

“Well, this is also not the time to be talking about Harry's love life,” replied Ron calmly, “since he clearly doesn't want you to.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds longer, a battle of wills waging between them, before Hermione sighed and relented. She looked away first, resting her head glumly on her hand.

“Sorry, Harry,” she said quietly.

“It's all right,” said Harry, smiling at her.

For the next hour they talked about random topics like Quidditch (“The Cannons are never going to win the league, Ron!” said Hermione exasperatedly. “When are you going to understand that?”), some of Ron's strategy plans for the next raid (“I feel so lucky to have my job,” said Ron, smiling vacantly out the window. “I love it so much.”) and about how they would meet up next time (“Dinner again?” asked Hermione hopefully. “I don't get time to do this very often.”) until it was time for them to leave. They each put some Galleons down on the table to pay for their food.

“Stay safe, Harry,” said Hermione, pausing in the act of pulling on her cloak to wrap an arm around Harry's neck and plant a kiss on his cheek.

“Yeah, so long as you both do the same,” said Harry, receiving a clap on the back from Ron.

“See you, Harry,” said Ron, wrapping an arm around Hermione's shoulders as they left the restaurant. Taking time to put his own cloak on, Harry wondered wistfully what Malfoy was doing. Then he, too, left. 

*

When Harry arrived home, he shrugged off his jacket, kicked off his shoes and stomped to the kitchen for a glass of water. Once he retrieved it, he leaned against the corner of the counter, nursing the cup against his chest in between sips. He was so tired that he thought about just crashing on the lounge, but immediately decided against it. Last time he had he'd woken up with a sore back.

_Tap, tap, tap._

Harry sighed, turning to face the window. A barn owl was tapping against the glass, the Daily Prophet tied to its leg. Not for the first time Harry wondered why he even bothered with the subscription, but he unlatched the window and opened it to allow the owl access anyway.

The owl landed on the counter, ruffling its feathers importantly before sticking its leg out and hooted.

“Yes, yes,” said Harry, untying the string with one hand, the other diving into his pocket for a spare Knut or two. “Thank you.”

He retrieved the Knut coins, put it in the leather pouch attached to the owl and watched as it flew away with another hoot, a wing brushing against Harry's head. He smiled after it.

Tipping the rest of the water down the sink, Harry unravelled the newspaper, then promptly dropped the cup. The fall, however, was not that great and the cup landed in the sink without shattering.

“No … No way! How could they have …”

A picture of Malfoy stared up at him, blinking owlishly under the caption;

 **DRACO MALFOY, A VEELA?** _HOW THE WOOL HAS BEEN PULLED OVER OUR EYES! By Rita Skeeter. Pages 2-5._

His Floo roared to life.

“HARRY JAMES POTTER!”

Malfoy.

*

“Who did you tell?” screamed Draco, slamming his hands down on the table. “Who the _fuck_ did you tell?”

“I never said anything to anyone!” said Potter earnestly. “I don't know how –”

“That's _bullshit_! You're the only one who knew!”

“Malfoy – Draco, I swear I never told anyone,” said Potter, holding his hands up to placate Draco. He glanced repeatedly down at the Prophet. “These things … they have a way of getting out when you don't want them to.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Just let this go?” Draco dragged his hand through his hair, willing himself not to destroy the entire room like his instincts were telling him to do. “I can't exactly deny the claims!”

“Who said anything about denying?” asked Potter.

Draco shot him a miserable look. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that … Look. We can either hide in here and wait for the press to finish wringing this story dry of all other possible ideas, which could take months – believe me, I would know. Or we could go outside together, walk around Diagon Alley tomorrow morning and make a show of you being proud that you're a Veela.”

“That sounds like a terrible idea,” said Draco. “'sides, I'm not proud of being a Veela. Not yet, anyway.”

“I know,” said Potter. “But pretending you are is really the only option you've got.”

*

“They're all staring at me, Potter,” said Draco, clutching at Potter's arm. He could feel all the eyes on him, everyone who happened to be outside in Diagon Alley and not hidden away inside a shop. While he knew he was gorgeous, he was not particularly keen on the almost ravenous stares that he got from most people, as opposed to the looks of disgust from those who were not taken in by the natural Allure. “Make them stop.”

“As much as I'd like to tell them to stop looking, I can't order them to,” said Potter, sounding mildly annoyed. Draco knew that he wasn't happy about this either. “Look, they all know that you're a Veela now, and there's no point in hiding away in the Manor like you're guilty of something. Just got to –”

“Grin and bear it,” interjected Draco. “I know.”

“Where do you want to go first?” asked Potter.

Before Draco could answer, they passed a gaggle of fourteen year old girls who looked close to drowning in their abundance of shopping bags. Seeing Draco, they stopped in their tracks and their eyes widened, laughter giving way to a look of pure lust. Potter spotted them and put a possessive arm around Draco.

“Did you know I'm on the fast track to being Headmistress of Hogwarts?” one of them yelled, accidentally yanking on one of her many curls as she attempted to flip her hair, letting out a shriek of pain.

“That's nothing!” said another girl. “I'm going to be on the Wizengamot in a couple of years – the position was promised to me, you know!”

“You couldn't figure your way around the law with a map and a Point Me spell!” cried another. “I, however, am going to be a World Cup Quidditch champion, just you wait!”

“You're terrified of heights, how the hell are you going to become a Quidditch champion?” said the girl who'd pulled on her curls. “You wouldn't even know which way to sit on the broom!”

“Let's go,” muttered Potter into Draco's ear, leading him away to a chorus of girls screaming at him to come back. “Have to say, it's odd to come outside and not have people throw themselves at me like they are with you. First time in a long time, in fact.”

“I'm sure that once you're not with me, your fan club will prostrate themselves at your feet again,” said Draco dryly. “Don't despair.”

“Oh, I'm not despairing, trust me. I'm trying to figure out a way to convince you to come out with me all the time,” said Potter. “With you around, I'll get peace and quiet.”

Draco stepped out from under Potter's arm and shoved him. Potter threw his head back and laughed, lunging forward to drape himself over Draco once again. This time, Draco didn't push him away. He liked the warm weight of Potter's arm around him, pulling him close until they were pressed together side-by-side.

There was a wail of despair behind them.

“Oh no!” cried the girl with curly hair to her equally distraught friends. “He's taken!”

“ _Slug & Jiggers Apothecary_,” said Draco firmly. “We're going there. _Now_.”

Reaching the _Slug & Jiggers_ Apothecary, Draco shoved open the door and stepped into the cool, quiet shop. The man at the counter looked up from the large book he was scribbling into, gave Draco a little frown, then looked down again and ignored the existence of the only two customers he had.

“All this makes me glad I learned how to hide my wings,” said Draco. He shrugged off his coat, holding it over one arm, and inspected the shop with a weary gaze.

He almost jumped out of his skin when something banged against the window. He turned.

“I love you!” screamed the flock of girls he'd seen outside. They made kissing faces, waved and jumped up and down. “Marry me!”

“Now I _definitely_ love going shopping with you,” said Potter. “They don't even notice me.”

“Shut up, Potter,” said Draco, the words lacking ferocity. “This won't be happening again, I can tell you that now.”

“I won't have this lovey-dovey rot near my business!” roared the shop owner, pulling out his wand. Draco and Potter immediately went for their own, expecting an attack, but the owner stalked outside and shot stinging hexes at the girls, who shrieked so loud Draco's hair stood on end, and ran away.

“Well, that's one way to take care of the problem.” Potter smiled wryly. “He'd be handy in a difficult situation.”

“I'm already thinking of ways to get back at you for making me do this,” said Draco tiredly, pressing the fingers of his right hand to his forehead. “I hope you know it's going to be nasty.”

“Wouldn't expect anything less,” said Potter cheerfully. He was already walking between the shelves of potions ingredients. “Feels weird being back here. Haven't been in here since we went to Hogwarts.”

The shop owner stormed back in, stowing his wand away. He gave Draco and Potter a menacing glare before returning to his book. Draco felt the insane urge to giggle, so he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth and marched to the other end of the Apothecary before he allowed himself a moment or two to do so.

Draco walked through the shop, inspecting the supplies, and determined that he had no use for any of them yet.

“Come on, Potter,” he said. “Let's leave.”

“You're not buying anything?” asked Potter, brows furrowing.

“No, not yet,” said Draco. “I can always come back later. There's nothing here I want.”

“Fine,” said Potter. He shot a wary look out the window and groaned. “It seems we've got a crowd.”

“What?” Draco followed his gaze and groaned as well, slapping a hand to his forehead. “Oh, no …”

“We have to go out there,” said Potter grimly. “We can't Disapparate.”

“Great fucking plan bringing me here.”

“You've got nothing to hide!”

“Yeah, now I don't, thanks to whoever ran to the freaking papers.” Draco ran his fingers through his hair, fighting the urge to rip it from his scalp. “Suppose I've got no other choice. Let's get this over with.”

He marched out of the shop, Potter trailing after him with his shoulders hunched. Instantly, all eyes were on Draco, who fought the urge to Disapparate right there. Just beyond the gaggle of squealing girls were reporters, who immediately pushed their way through the growing crowd, uncaring as to who their elbows jabbed.

“Mr. Malfoy!” they shouted at him. “Mr. Malfoy, if you could just answer some questions –”

“When did you become a Veela?”

“Was your family hiding this secret from the world?”

“Was your family ever really pure of blood?”

“Tell us what it's like to be a Veela!”

“What does it feel like not to be human any more?”

“What does it feel like to be regarded as a mere magical creature and not a human?”

Draco would've liked to have punched them all in the face, or maybe hex them so badly the effects would last for years. His fingers twitched toward his wand, but Potter grabbed his elbow tightly, perhaps spotting what he was about to do.

“Just give a statement,” said Potter softly into Draco's ear.

“Do you have a mate?” asked one reporter.

“Oooh! Oooh!” squealed a girl, lost in the sea of bodies. “I'll be your mate!”

“No, I will! Pick me, pick me!”

“What is it like to have wings? Are you the first in the Malfoy line?”

Cameras flashed in every direction. Draco blinked, shying away from them, blinking rapidly to dispel black spots in his eyes.

“I'll take _good_ care of you, Malfoy, if you know what I mean. Pick me!”

“You're a good for nothing bitch, he won't pick _you_. He'll pick _me_ – won't you Malfoy?” 

“Tell me what's it like to become a Veela; what are the changes?” 

“You're the bitch! Take that back!”

“No, I won't it's the truth!”

There were too many people speaking all at once.

“SHUT UP!” roared Draco, overwhelmed to the point where he snapped. The incessant noise died down immediately; everyone looked surprised that he'd lost his temper. Even the cameras stopped flashing. “Never in the Malfoy or the Black line has there been any traces of Veela blood, to the best of my knowledge! My parents certainly weren't Veela themselves. How does it feel to be a magical creature? Don't know! I still look, feel and act like a human, for the most part! Ask me in about a year, when I'm used to it. No, I do not have a mate and if I were to go looking for one, it certainly wouldn't be any of you. Yes, my family was pure of blood, thank you for asking. Now, if you would kindly move out of my way, I have shopping to do! Good day!”

He pushed through the crowd, who were all too stunned to protest or stop him. It wasn't until he was free of them all, hiding behind Fortescue's ice cream parlour that he heard Potter snickering.

What's your problem?” he growled at Potter, his words lacking any bite.

“That was one of the greatest things I've ever seen,” said Potter. “If only I had spoken to them like that, maybe it would've made them leave me alone.”

“Well, don't get too excited. I'm pretty sure that there's going to be some drawbacks to this outburst.”

Harry nodded, his lips twisting wryly. “They're going to warp everything that you've said, then embellish it. In the papers they'll have you saying things you've never said. Now they'll turn you into the bad guy because you brushed them off.” He chuckled, although the humour wasn't there. “Welcome to this side of the media, Malfoy.”

“Oh, joy,” said Draco sarcastically. “I cannot wait for the next edition of the _Prophet_.”

Harry snickered once more. “Me too.”

Draco sighed. “Shall we head back to the Manor?”

“Got nothing better to do, have we?” asked Potter rhetorically, holding out his arm for Draco to take him Side-along. “We've done what we set out to do.”

Draco took Potter's arm. It was warm and slightly sweaty under his touch.

“Yeah, whether that works in my favour or not has yet to be seen.” He was dreading the _Prophet_ ’s next edition. It was quite different being the person everyone was speculating about, instead of being part of the masses that would read the newspaper and formulate their own opinions on the matter, knowing that it held no real importance to their lives. “Let's go.”

He Apparated them away.

*

He grinned, holding the new edition of the Prophet. Draco Malfoy's face looked up at him from the paper, frightened and uneasy. Potter stood behind him, his body ramrod straight like some kind of bodyguard.

“Found you,” he said.

* 

“Master Draco!” said Mopsy, who was tending to Narcissa, coaxing her into eating some soup. Narcissa ate it, staring vacantly at the fire roaring in the fireplace. “Is you wanting to cook, sir?”

Potter chuckled, releasing Draco's arm. “You're learning how to cook?”

“I thought it might pass the time,” said Draco defensively. “What of it? Think a pureblood can't cook?”

“No, that's not it,” said Potter. He crossed one arm over his chest and used it to prop the elbow of his other arm up so that he could rest the side of his hand against his mouth. “I just never saw _you_ as the type. Besides, Molly Weasley is a pureblood, and _she_ cooks.”

“That's different,” said Draco. “The Weasleys have been regarded as blood traitors for years and couldn't afford to buy a house elf to cook for them. With all those children she popped out, I'd wonder how they were fed if she _didn't_ cook for them.”

“I'm trying to think of what insult to shoot down first,” admitted Potter. “There's so many of them.”

“Draco …” The sound of Narcissa's voice, raspy and weak, drew everyone's attention.

“Mistress Malfoy!” gasped Mopsy, her wide eyes growing even wider in shock.

“Mother?” asked Draco cautiously.

But Narcissa didn't speak again, nor did she lift her gaze from the fire.

“She seems to have gotten worse since the last time I was here,” noted Potter sadly.

“She is,” said Draco, clenching his hands into fists. Tears stung his eyes. “She was sort of herself immediately after the war, but ever since Father was put in Azkaban, she's just … deteriorated. Doesn't have a care for herself in the slightest. Nothing anyone can say or do will get through to her. Sometimes she attacks the house elves in a fit of rage whenever they try to feed her, help her bathe or change her clothes. It's the only time I'm ever sure that the old her is still in there. Somewhere.”

Potter put a commiserating hand on Draco's shoulder. “I'm sorry.”

“Thank you.” Draco cleared his throat loudly. “Mopsy, I shall be cooking tonight. With Potter. You tend to my mother and come down to the kitchens when you're finished, understand?”

“Oh yes, sir! Mopsy is understanding, sir!” Mopsy nodded her head emphatically.

“Come with me,” Draco said imperiously to Potter. “We're going to the kitchens.”

As they headed toward the kitchens, Potter was chortling.

“I still can't believe that _you_ want to cook,” he said in disbelief, with a tiny chuckle.

“I'm glad that my sudden need to learn to provide sustenance for myself is amusing to you,” said Draco icily. “If that's how you feel, then perhaps I should cancel this altogether and hope that the world doesn't one day run out of house elves – or that your friend Granger chases them out of the country with the ridiculous laws she wants to put through.”

“What's wrong with paying house elves for their labour?”

“The fact is, it's an insult to the house elves. They regard money the same way they do clothes.”

“Hermione reckons they've been brainwashed –”

“Granger has only been part of the magical world for about eight, nine years now, Potter. She can read all the books that she wants about our culture, but she was never raised in it. She has no magical family to pass along magical origin stories. Journalists-cum-authors still retain a lot of bias.”

“You lost me.”

Draco sighed. “What I mean is that history is very much one-sided. Look at all the books about you, and about the war. How much information has been lost or unused to paint the picture the authors wants the readers to see? We can learn how house elves came to work in the kitchens of purebloods, but we can never truly learn whether they've been brainwashed or not, because house elves don't care to write books about their culture, or send an article to the _Daily Prophet_. Granger believes only what she wants to believe, but that doesn't make her beliefs right.”

“Careful, Malfoy, that was almost eloquent.” Potter knocked his shoulder against Draco's, grinning.

“Sod off, I'm always eloquent.”

Potter chuckled once more. “Sure you are.”

Draco shoved him. Potter shoved back. They continued this all the way to the kitchens, their laughter growing and growing, until there were tears rolling down their faces and they struggled to breathe. Draco couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so much.

“Master Draco, sir!” tittered the house elves, when Draco and Potter crashed their way into the kitchen.

“We're going to be cooking something today,” announced Draco, drawing himself up to his fullest height. “Do you have anything in mind?”

The house elves looked at each other with mixed expressions of alarm and horror. There was a whimper, but Draco couldn't discern from which one it had come from.

“How about a curry?” asked Potter. “I love curries.”

Draco arched an eyebrow. “A curry?”

“Yeah,” said Potter, with a touch of defensiveness. He shrugged his shoulders as if to say why not. “They're nice, what of it?”

“Nothing,” said Draco. “I just didn't see you being a curry kind of bloke, that's all.” He turned to the house elves. “What are you waiting for? Get us set up!”

The house elves promptly fell over themselves to prepare ingredients and utensils for them.

Potter shot Draco a disapproving look. “You shouldn't talk to them like that.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Don't start, Potter.”

“Fine, whatever, but I still maintain that you shouldn't talk to the house elves like that.”

Draco smiled sweetly. “And that is your opinion, which I'm kindly asking you to keep to yourself.”

“Here, Master Draco, sir!” said Dippy. “We is having it all set up for you now, sir.”

“Thank you,” said Potter, who knew that Draco wasn't about to say it.

Under the house elves' supervision, Potter and Draco got cooking.

“I don't know why you're helping,” said Draco conversationally, dicing up strips of chicken. It reminded him of potions; preparation of ingredients that needed to be put together at a certain time in order to achieve the desired result. “Weren't you just teasing me for wanting to learn how to cook?”

“I wasn't teasing you. I was just surprised at the fact that you, of all people, wanted to learn how to cook, that's all.”

“Hrmph. Whatever.”

Draco and Potter worked methodically to prepare the food. However, their efforts were almost ruined when Draco, after adding the chicken, had gone a little overboard chopping up chili peppers. As he attempted to put the whole lot of chili in Harry, with a cry of “No!”, leapt forward to stop him and almost knocked the table over.

“What did you do that for?” asked Draco irritably. “You almost knocked the table over and ruined everything!”

“We really, really don't want that much chili,” explained Potter. “Just half of that will do. Trust me, it'll definitely be hot enough.”

“Why only half?”

“Because too much chili pepper burns the mouth, upsets the stomach, and can keep you on the loo for a solid hour,” said Potter. “Trust me, when Ron ate an extra-hot curry and used my toilet after, I made a pact never to eat too many chili peppers ever again.” He shuddered.

“Fine,” said Draco. He added in only half of the peppers he'd chopped. “Happy?”

“Immensely,” said Potter. “You will be too, trust me.”

Draco shrugged, indifferent. He didn't really care one way or another, just as long as the curry was tasty.

When it was time to cook the curry, Draco whipped out his wand and levitated the cauldron over to the fireplace, for it was too heavy to carry.

“Incendio!” he said, once the cauldron hung from the hook, and fire erupted in the grate. “With any luck it won't taste like shit because you've helped.”

“Malfoy.” Potter's voice sounded odd. “Malfoy.”

“What?” Draco whirled around.

And promptly got smacked in the face with an egg that Harry had just picked up off the counter. Draco leapt back with a gasp, his hands flying up to hover over his cheeks, feeling the egg slide down his chin. Potter roared with laughter, pointing at Draco with one hand as he bent over double, and pressing the other hand to his stomach.

“Your _face_!” he cried. “Your fucking _face_!”

“You bastard!” shrieked Draco. “What was that for?!”

But Potter was too busy wheezing to answer him. He now clutched at the table to keep himself from keeling over, laughing so hard his voice was starting to go.

Growling, Draco grabbed for the leftover pureed tomato and dumped it over Potter's head, hearing his sharp intake of breath.

“It's all in my hair!” said Potter, grabbing one of the pastes that sat on the table at the same time Draco did. “I'll make you pay for that one!”

Draco and Potter paused momentarily, staring at each other challengingly. Then, as if they'd silently communicated with each other, they threw the pastes at each other at the same time.

“Master Draco, sir!” squeaked a house elf in outrage. “You is making a mess, sir!”

But neither Draco or Potter had heard the protest. They were too busy grabbing every bit of food in sight to fling at each other, running around the kitchen, ducking beneath the table. Their laughter and triumphant cries rang throughout the kitchen. It was the most fun Draco could remember having in a long while.

Finally, when their arms were too sore to continue throwing things at each other, and their chests were aching from laughing so much, they stopped. The house elves immediately went about cleaning up the mess Draco and Potter had made; several of them looked frustrated, but they knew better than to say anything about it.

Draco met Potter eyes and several things happened at once.

First of all, his skin began to tingle all over, warmth rushing through his blood while he stared at Potter.

Second, he felt the urge to let his wings out and show them off proudly, as if to boast that his wings were the prettiest and the biggest that Potter could ever hope to see.

Third, was that Draco wanted to claim Potter for his own.

And so he acted on points two and three.

“Malfoy?” asked Potter nervously, taking half a step back. He stared at Draco's wings in awe. “What are you doing?”

“Mine.” Draco's mouth seemed to be working on its own accord. “You're my mate. You're mine.”

“ _Mate_? Wait, what does that –”

Draco swooped forward and kissed Potter full on the lips and it was awkward and painful; as soon as Draco moved, Potter had attempted to turn away and run. Draco grabbed him by his shirt and dragged him forward, their noses crushed between them from the odd angle, and Potter accidentally bit Draco's lip hard enough to draw blood.

And it was perfect.

He kissed Potter fervently, trying to correct their postures without having to pull away, until Potter sighed and relaxed enough to start kissing back.

Draco wanted to scream in victory. His mate had accepted him.

Finally, they pulled away.

Potter pressed two fingertips to his lips. “What … what was that?” he asked shakily.

“I choose you as my mate,” said Draco breathlessly, triumphant. “I claim you.”

“Claim me? But –”

“Does my mate accept me back?”

Potter stared at Draco as if seeing him the first time. After a few tense seconds, his shoulders dropped and he lunged toward Draco with a whisper of, “Fuck yes” and kissed him again.

The house elves continued to work, giving Draco and Potter a wide berth.

Draco couldn't stop grinning.

 _Yes_. This felt absolutely right.

*

Draco found that he rather liked kissing Potter (“ _Harry_ ,” said Potter between kisses. “My name is Harry. If you're going to kiss me, use it.”) and decided to do it every hour of the day if he could. It was perfect. Everything was perfect, and if the world had any common sense, it'd stay that way.

“We should've done this sooner,” remarked Potter – shit, _Harry_ – breathlessly. He cupped Draco's cheeks in his hands, dragging him back down for more kisses. He bit Draco's upper lip, eliciting a moan. “What the hell were we thinking?”

“We weren't, and if you'd kindly shut up, we won't have to now,” said Draco, sounding more irritated than what he actually was.

Harry laughed. Draco found that there was no sound in the world that he loved more than Harry's laugh. He grinned against Harry's mouth, his nose wrinkling. There was a warm weight in Draco's chest, a kind of pleasant ache, that made his toes curl.

It had been three days since Draco had claimed Harry as his mate and been accepted. So far, all they had really done was kiss and grope a little bit, their relationship too new for them to consider doing anything else just yet. For now, it was perfect the way it was.

“You're gorgeous,” Harry whispered against his mouth. “So gorgeous.”

_Beep! Beep! Beep!_

Harry's wand blared with an incoming call. Groaning, the two of them pulled apart so that Harry could answer it. Draco let his head drop against Harry's shoulders. Damn it, the kiss had been getting really good, too!

“Yes?” asked Harry, when he'd activated the call. Robards' face swam in the centre of the mist cloud, his expression pinched. “Robards, is everything alright?”

“Worthington has escaped,” said Robards without preamble. “Broke out not an hour ago.”

“ _What_?” demanded Harry, his jaw dropping open in disbelief. “How could've he escaped?”

“We're looking into that now,” said Robards. “Right now it's all hands on deck. Get over here, Auror Potter.”

Robards ended the call immediately, leaving behind a ringing silence in his wake.

“Who is Worthington?” asked Draco finally, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Harry regarded him with a long, intense stare. Then, releasing a shaky breath, he said, “Don't you worry about a thing, alright?”

“You know that only makes me worry more. Who is this Worthington bloke?”

“Just a criminal.”

Draco could sense that Harry wasn't telling him something and it irked him to no end. The one thing he hated most was people keeping secrets from him.

“If he's just a criminal, then you won't mind telling me who he is and what he's done,” he said, forcing himself to keep his tone light.

Harry chuckled and pressed a kiss to Draco's lips. “I'll be back soon, okay?”

Draco pouted. “Okay.”

Being locked onto the Manor's wards, Draco could tell immediately when Harry left. He felt the urge to follow him, to go wherever Harry went and made sure he was safe. But he knew that Harry would never condone it, so he reluctantly stayed where he was.

Sighing, he threw himself down on his bed, spread-eagle, grinning like a loon.

*

“He'll have gone to ground, sir!” said Harry to Robards, clutching at the armrests of his chair hard enough to turn his knuckles white. “There's no way he'd go back to that warehouse.”

“Regardless, you and a few other Aurors will check anyway,” said Robards indifferently, pushing a small stack of parchments to the side. “I want to be a hundred percent certain that he's not there again.”

Harry caught himself before he could groan in frustration. That certainly wouldn't go over well with Robards. Instead he nodded in acquiescence, choosing to pick his battles wisely.

Robards handed him a piece of parchment with at least six names on it, all of them Aurors. Three of them were well-seasoned in their profession, closer now to their retirement than the beginning of their careers; two had been on the job for a good five and seven years respectively, and only one other was another trainee like Harry.

“I want you to round them up,” said Robards. “I have a few last minute things I need to do.”

“Shall I bring them back in here, sir?” asked Harry, keeping his tone level.

The only response he received was a sharp, dismissive nod of Robards' head. Biting the inside of his cheek, hands curling repeatedly into fists (and crumpling the parchment), Harry left. On his way out, he thought about Draco, and how desperately he wanted to be by his side, kissing him and holding him like had not an hour ago.

Within half an hour, Harry had located all of the Aurors on the list and directed them to Robards' office. Most of them had rolled their eyes and grumbled under their breaths, to which Harry could relate, but others merely sighed and marched over there without a word.

Harry was the last Auror to arrive in Robards' office, having taken his time. He ducked his head upon entering, listening to Robards tell everyone what their plan of attack was.

“Are their any questions?” asked Robards, when he'd finished. No one said anything. “Right, get to it then.”

Everyone, including Harry, left.


	4. Chapter 4

Part 4

Draco was bored.

Denied his newly claimed mate was leaving him restless. He wanted to find Harry, wherever he was, and pull him into his arms and claim him. Leave a mark on him so that everyone would know that Harry Potter was Draco Malfoy's and nobody else's.

But he wasn't able to do that yet.

Things that usually held his attention like books and practising new spells couldn't keep him occupied for more than a minute now, perhaps less. He picked things up and then threw them aside almost in the same motion.

What about manipulating the wards to let Harry in?

The idea piqued Draco's interest. The wards had been created to only let those of Malfoy blood, or those who married into the line of Malfoy, inside. If Harry left, Draco usually would have to send one of the house elves to go out and get him as permission from Malfoys, even given from a house elf owned by a Malfoy, still counted. It would be much easier, Draco reasoned, if the wards accepted Harry from the get go.

Not to mention it would be a great gift. Harry was bound to be happy by it, and Draco felt himself getting excited by it. His mate would be happy with a gift from his Veela, right? Draco was sure of it. With that in mind, he leapt up and marched outside to begin working on the wards.

*

The warehouse was empty of everything, just like Harry had expected. He was irritated by the fact that he'd just been pulled away from Draco for nothing, when he could've spent an entire day with him.

“All the cages are missing,” said Auror Choo, holding his wand aloft.

As the Aurors moved through the warehouse, opening doors and shouting, “Clear!” their footsteps echoed loudly, the sound almost deafening.

“He'll surely be off the radar for a long time,” said Auror White, sighing heavily. “It took ages for Worthington to show his face, and now we've lost him.”

“Going to ground to reestablish himself – it's not something we haven't seen before,” said Auror Webber, as she knelt to study something on the ground. It proved to be useless, as she stood up a few seconds later and walked away. “He'll show up on the radar soon; they always do.”

Harry made a noncommittal sound of agreement. Evil people couldn't stay away from the limelight for very long; the urge to get recognised for their “achievements” was like an itch burning under their skin. Every once in a while, they would have to scratch it. It was in their nature, and, notably, their downfall. Those who did bad things liked to play games with the people who wanted to stop what they were doing, to see whether the good people were capable of catching them. An elaborate game of cat and mouse that the public were able to watch. What was the point of doing something evil when there was no one around to watch?

“We'll do another sweep and go back to HQ,” said Auror White. “There's no point spending more time out here than what we have to.”

Everyone agreed with her. They decided to stay another hour, searching for anything that might help them. The day grew warm and sweat ran down Harry's back uncomfortably, making him itchy. But there was nothing there. Whoever had cleared the place out had done a good job of it.

It was the middle of the afternoon when they left empty-handed.

*

The area was clear of Aurors once more.

He grinned. Time to get back to work.

*

Draco was just drifting off to sleep when he felt the wards accepting Harry through. He'd spent a good half hour working on that. Snuffling into his pillow, he smiled, anticipating Harry's body next to him. It was a few minutes before he heard the door creak as it opened.

“Draco?” asked Harry uncertainly, his voice only just higher than a whisper. “Draco, you awake?”

Humming a 'yes' Draco cracked open his eyes and watched Harry get undressed, climbing into bed wearing nothing but bottle green boxers.

“Missed you,” whispered Harry into Draco's ear, sliding into bed and wrapping his arms around Draco's middle, pulling him flush against Harry's body. “Merlin, I missed you.”

“Mm, missed you too,” said Draco, craning his neck back to kiss Harry. He pulled back after a few seconds, wrinkling his nose. “You smell like sweat.”

“Didn't have time for a shower,” said Harry. “Wanted to come home to you as soon as possible.”

Even though it warmed Draco's heart to hear that Harry had been desperate to come home to him, he drew the line at allowing sweaty, dirty people into his bed.

“Go and have a shower,” he said, giving Harry a little push in the chest. “It'll take you, what, five minutes? Go on.”

“Aw, Draco …”

“No, I will not have someone in my bed who smells like they've been rolling around in the dirt! Go and have a shower, or you can sleep on the floor!”

Harry groaned but got off the bed and went for a shower. Even though he had been the one to order Harry into the shower, Draco sighed, shuffled around a bit and wished that he'd hurry up. It had been hours – almost a complete day – since Draco had seen him. It had been torturous beyond belief.

“Back,” said Harry, knocking the door open with his forearm. He ran to the bed on the tips of his toes as if he had to be quiet – which he didn't, for there was no one on Draco's wing to disturb – and threw himself down on the bed, curling an arm around Draco and bringing him close just like he had the first time.

Draco sniffed the air around Harry, humming in delight. “Now you don't smell like rotten garbage.”

“Oh, come on,” said Harry, rolling his eyes. “Now you're exaggerating. I did _not_ smell like rotten garbage.”

“Could you actually smell yourself?” asked Draco, his arm moving behind him so that he could massage Harry's upper thigh, just above the knee. “No? Then please don't tell me what it was that I was smelling. You were awful, but now you're not. Which means I can kiss you.”

He rolled over, pressing Harry into the mattress and straddled him. Harry grinned up at him, so wide and earnest that it left Draco breathless with want. Harry's hands slid up Draco's thighs to grasp his waist.

“Don't let me stop you,” said Harry, beaming.

Draco immediately launched himself forward and pressed his lips to Harry's, eliciting a moan from Harry.

“So gorgeous,” whispered Harry, his breath tickling Draco's jaw as he moved to kiss it, his hands tightening on Draco's hips.

It was when Harry's fingers pushed up under Draco's shirt and slid up his torso that Draco stopped them, grabbing Harry's hands and forcing them back out as he swung a leg off Harry and sat on the bed, breathing heavily.

“Not yet,” he said, even though he wanted to tear Harry's clothes off as if he were a wrapped present at Christmas. He shook his head slowly, releasing Harry's wrists to rake his fingers through his hair, now slightly damp from sweat. “Believe me, I want you so badly, but not yet.”

“Why not?” asked Harry, bewildered but not upset. “What's up? It's not your … It isn't your first time, is it?”

“No!” said Draco. Amusement tickled at him, remembering how horny he'd been at Hogwarts and how many people he'd taken to his bed every week. His first time? Hardly. “I've always taken people to my bed. Casual hook-ups. People I have no intention of seeing romantically. But you, Harry, you are different. I will not treat this like some one night stand.”

“How would it be a one night stand?” asked Harry, brow furrowing. “I am your mate, therefore I am not just a casual hook-up.”

“It doesn't feel right, the timing,” explained Draco. “Not too long ago, we found out we're mates, and now we just tumble into bed? No. When we've been together for a while – maybe two weeks,” he paused to allow Harry time to giggle at that statement, a wry smile spreading across his own face, “then we'll have sex. If you can't agree to that, then you're going to be frustrated for a very long time.”

“I agree to it,” said Harry, reaching out to cup Draco's cheek momentarily, then Harry ran his fingers up under Draco's shirt, caressing his scarred skin, making him shiver.

“Could you tell me – if you're okay with it, that is – how you got these?” asked Harry quietly. He added quickly, “You don't have to, of course. I'm not making you do anything you don't want to.”

Even as his stomach churned with trepidation, Draco managed to smile down at Harry. He had known for a while that this question was coming, even if he hadn't known the circumstances and the exact day.

“I know,” he said quietly, an edge of sadness in his voice. “I know, but I – I think I'm ready to talk about it. To you, at least.”

He collapsed sideways onto the bed, but let his right leg stay where it was, draped across Harry's waist. One of Harry's hands massaged the side of Draco's knee lightly.

“It – it happened during the war at Hogwarts,” said Draco. “I was running …”

_You're running through the debris, one hand clutching your wand while your other hand shields your head from oncoming bits of wood and brick that fall from the sky like rain. You have no idea where you're running to. The only thing that motivates you to keep going is that somewhere had to be better than right where you are._

Trolls roar in fury, spells are screamed at the top of frightened lungs, and people crash into you, running in the all directions. The battle is everywhere and nowhere at once. No one, not even you, can think of where to start firing. With grounds breached, everywhere is a travesty of broken, bleeding bodies and the screaming of the injured, ignored and on their way into the arms of Death.

There are lights, explosions in the forest that catch your eye. Determined, you sprint toward them. If you could prove that you are not cowardly, that you are no longer on the losing side, then all will be okay if you manage to make it through the night.

Something inhuman, terrifying, shrieks behind you and you turn.

OH MERLIN –

_A woman, a Veela, flies at you from out of nowhere. Her teeth are nothing but fangs in her cracked and bleeding mouth. She's deathly pale and her white dress is ripped, dirty with blood and soot from the smoke billowing out from the Forbidden Forest. She's upon you before you can even move._

She manages to get a grip of you around your neck, but you manage to break her grip by smashing your arms into the crook of her elbows as hard as you can. She shrieks, swoops up into the air and then loops around and comes back at you again. You stumble back. She goes for the throat but you trip over a rock and fall, landing on your back hard enough to wind you.

Taking advantage of this new position, she lands on her knees right above your prone form. Terror rises in the form of bile in the back of your throat. You watch as she bares her jagged and broken claws at you, using your elbows and feet to try and propel yourself away from her. With a scream, she brings her claws down with every intention of clawing your chest to ribbons, but as she does you yell and with one almighty push your chest is out of harms way – but not your stomach.

You arch your back with an agonising scream as her claws rip through your stomach, cleaving flesh from bone, painting your face, neck and legs with your own blood. You try futilely to stop the river of blood as it gushes out from the wounds, creating a hot pool beneath you. Within seconds, you're soaked. There's a murderous glint in her eye, a grin of pure bloodlust on her face. Before you can think about what she's about to do, she leans forward and bites into the flesh above the wound, then with a sharp twist of her head, she rips the flesh clean off.

You don't have the energy left to scream, or even gurgle. You stare up at the Veela with wide eyes as you spit blood out of your mouth in the same second as you're trying to keep in the blood rushing out of your stomach.

In that second, looking up at her, you're not afraid to die.

However, a stray curse hits one of the broken bits of the bridge's pillar that lies nearby. The pillar is flung into the air and hits the Veela dead on, missing you by mere inches. The Veela screams, caught off guard, and is crushed beneath the weight. All you're able to see, as you crane your neck to find her, is an arm peeking out from underneath the grey stone.

You close your eyes and know no more, until you wake up in the Great Hall with Pomfrey and a couple of students working to save your life.

“… and that's it,” concluded Draco. “That's how I got these.”

He gestured down at his stomach, where his shirt hid his injuries.

“There wasn't anything they could do about the scarring?” asked Harry quietly.

Draco snorted. “Harry, she ripped the flesh out. Scarring was inevitable. The wounds had been exposed too long, and Pomfrey wanted to seal them as quickly as possible before I risked infection even further. They did the best they could, and it's because of them that I'm still here.”

Harry's arm shot out, wrapping around Draco's waist and pulling him closer. “For what it's worth, I'm glad you're still alive,” he said. “I'm glad I got the chance to know the real you, underneath all the snark and sarcasm.”

Draco felt heat rise in his cheeks. He bit his lip, unsuccessfully trying to hide a smile. “I'm glad I'm not dead, too … even though I wanted to die for a while after it happened, wishing the Veela had killed me.”

Harry's expression sobered. “Yeah …”

“But,” said Draco, “that was then.”

He leaned forward, pressing a chaste kiss to Harry's lips.

“As for now,” said Draco, pulling out his wand. “I want to learn that Invocatio spell you used the other day.”

Harry's brow arched. “Why would you want to learn that?”

“Because!” said Draco, fingers flexing around his wand. “I've never heard of it before. I don't like not knowing, especially when it's useful.”

“Fine.” Harry sat up, reaching for his own wand, which had clattered to the floor without either Harry or Draco noticing. “It requires a lot of focus. When you call out the name of the person you want to contact, you need to picture their faces clearly in your mind. It won't work otherwise.”

“Right, right,” said Draco slowly. He stared at his wand as if it held all the answers to the universe, anxiety beginning to swell inside him at the thought he might do something wrong and screw it up. “Who should I call?”

“I think for now it should be me,” said Harry. “To the best of my knowledge, only Aurors know how to communicate like this. If you call Robards, he'll freak out and have my head.”

“Have to say, it sounds appealing, freaking Robards out.”

Harry chuckled. “That it does. Alright, picture my face in your mind, say 'Invocatio Harry Potter' and we'll see whether it works or not.”

Draco stared at Harry. “Invocatio Harry Potter.”

Nothing happened.

“You're not trying hard enough,” said Harry patiently. “Focus.”

“I _was_ focusing!”

“Did the spell work?” Harry waited for an answer, but none was forthcoming. “No? Then you weren't focusing enough. Try again.”

By the eleventh try, Draco managed to get Harry's wand to ring for a good five seconds, before his concentration snapped and the spell ended before Harry could accept the call.

“That's good!” said Harry enthusiastically, whilst Draco wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Try it again!”

“Ugh, I'd rather not,” said Draco, flopping back against the pillows. He pointed his toes as he stretched out his rather cramped legs, letting out a little groan of relief. “Let's sleep for now, yeah?”

Harry smiled, nodding. “Sure.” He grabbed the blankets, throwing them over himself and Draco as he shimmied around onto his side, then settled his arm around Draco's waist. “Goodnight Draco.”

“Night, Harry,” murmured Draco.

*

It took another four days before Draco got the Invocatio spell right. Harry spent a lot of that time diving for his wand, only to see that it wasn't work calling but Draco.

“You really need to stop doing this,” said Harry tiredly, staring at Draco's smirking face in the mist. It was the seventh time that day that he'd been called by Draco.

“Why?” asked Draco innocently. “Keeps you on your toes.”

“I'm going to get a call from work and ignore it because I'll just assume it's you.”

“That won't be my fault. It'll be yours for not answering calls.”

Harry sighed. “You've got the spell down,” he said. “Now quit it.”

“No, I don't think I will,” said Draco, after pretending to think about it for a moment. “I see how much it annoys you. It's my life's duty to annoy you, so I must continue.”

“I was going to take you back to my flat for the day, get you out of the Manor and all,” said Harry, “but now I don't think I will. You can stay where you are all day, moaning and moping that there's nothing interesting left in the place to do. How does that sound to you?”

Draco rolled his eyes dramatically. “No need to threaten me. _Merlin_.”

“Apparently there was,” said Harry primly. “Get downstairs and let's go already. I'm dying to get home.”

“Fine.” Pouting, Draco ended the call and appeared at the top of the staircase. “Always _threatening_ me. Honestly, it's unbecoming.”

“Keep it up, I'll show you what else is unbecoming.”

Draco frowned at Harry. “I'm trying to decide whether that actually makes sense or not.”

“It does because I say it does, so there.”

“So childish …”

Harry tapped Draco lightly on the forehead, snorting with laughter. “Alright, alright, enough. Let's go.”

As they left the Manor, they paused to say goodbye to Narcissa in the parlour, but they might have been part of the wall for all the attention she gave them. Outside of the Manor and its wards, they Apparated.

“Here,” said Harry, when they landed. He fished around in his pockets, pulled out a piece of parchment and a self-inking quill and wrote something down, before handing the parchment to Draco.

_The house of Harry Potter may be found at number 12 Grimmauld Place._

“What are you –” Draco sighed heavily, staring down at the parchment. “Fidelius charm?”

“Can't ever be too careful,” said Harry. “I redid them. Didn't know what to put on the parchment though.”

As they spoke, number 12 pushed its way in between houses 11 and 13, the Muggles living in said houses none the wiser. Draco pulled out his wand and set the parchment on fire, letting it go as it burned to ashes.

“Well, come on then,” said Harry, bounding up the stairs to the house. “Have to warn you, though, it's not pretty.”

Draco snorted, following Harry up the stairs at a more sedate pace. “Knowing you, that's an understatement.”

“Hey!”

“It was a compliment.”

“Oh yeah, sure it was …”

Harry closed the door.

*

Unbeknownst to them, a second pair of eyes had seen the parchment Harry Potter had handed to Draco Malfoy.

He smiled.

*

Several hours after Draco arrived, he lay in Harry's bed with one leg under the blankets and the other on top, staring at the ceiling as Harry slept peacefully beside him. The naturally dark room (which wouldn't let much light in even after Draco ripped open the curtains) charmed him and he found himself wishing never to leave. Everything was perfect, just like he'd hoped it would be.

He felt like practising the Invocatio spell a bit more, but it wasn't worth waking Harry up over. Draco refused to try and call anyone else – who else was there? He settled for waiting until Harry woke up.

To his surprise, he heard a thump downstairs. Lifting his head off the pillow, he stared at the door in consternation. Did Harry have any house elves he hadn't thought to mention? If so, they were clumsy. The whole point to house elves was that they cooked and cleaned in silence, never letting anyone know they were there. Making a mental note to reprimand Harry about the conduct of his house elves, Draco let his head drop back down to the pillow with a little sigh, wriggling a bit further down the bed. He just closed his eyes when –

BAM!

The door flew across the room, impeded by the bed frame. Draco, terrified and confused, let out a shriek and threw himself off the bed as Harry launched himself to his feet, wand already in hand.

“What the – Who are you?” demanded Harry gruffly. “How did you get in here?”

“You ought to think more carefully about where you show your secrets,” said a man slyly. “Out in the open, where anyone can see … Shame on you, really.”

“I said, who are you?” barked Harry.

“I'm a bit disappointed you don't remember me.”

Deeming it safe enough, Draco stood in time to see a man take off the hood of his cloak, revealing his smirking face.

Harry's wand arm trembled. “Worthington.”

“Got it in one! Give him an award!” Worthington glanced in Draco's direction, his cocky grin becoming a little more sinister and predatory. Then he looked back at Harry. “Oh, you'll do perfectly.”

“What do you –”

Draco didn't see what happened next. All he remembered was Worthington whipping out his wand and suddenly the room was lost to an explosion that threw Draco, unconscious, against the wall behind him. When he woke up, he found the furniture blasted in all directions and the room empty.

Picking himself up gingerly, he went to see Robards.

*

“They're not just taking Veela, Auror Robards,” said Draco, matching Robards' lengthy stride easily. He refused to be ignored. “They're also taking the mates of Veelas!”

“And how would you know that?” snapped Robards. “Look, I know you're upset that Auror Potter is missing, but that doesn't mean that the trafficking ring took him. For all I know, it was you who did it, and this is just some cocky act to make my Aurors run in circles while you run free!”

“Use my memories then!” Draco fought the impulse to shred Robards into ribbons. While Robards stood there arguing with Draco purely on the basis that he was a Malfoy, Harry was in danger. “That'll be your evidence!”

“And how do we know you haven't tampered with them?” Robards arched an eyebrow, clearly thinking that he'd caught Draco.

Draco growled at the insinuation. “If you think I had any part of Harry's kidnapping, you –” He closed his eyes, sucking in a deep breath to calm himself. “Just because I am a Veela doesn't mean I am worth less than a human. I was there when Harry was taken, and if I had anything to do with it, do you really think I would go to the Aurors about it? Harry is my mate! I'd do anything to get him back!”

Robards stopped suddenly, rounding on Draco and getting right up into his personal space. When he spoke, Draco could smell the coffee on his breath. He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “This isn't about the fact that you are a Veela, Malfoy, it's about the fact that you're _you_. A Malfoy until death and beyond, right? That's why we cannot trust you.”

“I am the sole witness to the kidnapping!” said Draco loudly, getting angrier by the second. By now, half the department was watching them with interest. “You can't just ignore me because I'm a Malfoy.”

Robards rolled his eyes, span on his heels and walked away.

“How would it look to the public if Harry Potter dies, huh?” Draco shouted after him. “What would it do to your career if Harry Potter dies when you could've done something to stop it? That'll be on you!”

For a second, Robards paused. Draco heard him take a deep breath as he bowed his head, and for a second Draco thought he might say something, but after a moment Robards continued walking.

Despairing, Draco gripped his hair tightly. If the Head Auror wouldn't help him, then he was out of options.

“Malfoy.” A hand gripped Draco's elbow tightly, tugging him around. Ron Weasley. He glanced around nervously at the other Aurors who still watched Draco with fascination, as if he were a rare specimen at a zoo, but there was an edge of determination in his gaze. “Come with me.”

Any other time, Draco would've told Weasley to go fuck himself and walk off, but this time he was desperate. He nodded his head, lifting his free hand to bite at the middle knuckle of his index finger, and followed Weasley to his office.

“Tell me about the man who took Harry,” said Weasley, the second he closed the door.

“D-do you want the description of him … or what he said?” Because Draco could recite what the man had said in a heartbeat, but what he looked like was a whole different story. In the panic of the moment, his memory of the man's appearance seemed to have been blacked out.

“Everything,” said Weasley, gesturing for Draco to take a seat as he, himself, took up his chair. Draco did. “I want to know everything that you saw, everything that you, Harry and that bastard who took him did.”

“I don't … It all happened so suddenly, I barely remember what he looks like …” Draco pressed his face into the palms of his hands, bending forward until his nose almost touched his lap. “Really, a Pensieve would be better than me describing it to you … Do you have one on hand?”

“Are you sure you can't describe anything to me?”

“Positive. All I can really remember is the man saying, 'You're Harry Potter, you'll more than do' and then in the blink of an eye both of them were gone.”

Weasley stood. “Right, stay there. I'll get a Pensieve.”

Weasley rushed out of the room, leaving Draco to sit in silence and fret. He planted his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands, focusing on breathing deeply so that he wouldn't hyperventilate. He didn't have time to freak out – _Harry_ didn't have time.

Launching to his feet, unable to sit still for a moment longer, Draco paced around the room. He scratched at his arms, thighs and the small of his back, for his skin was crawling to the point where he wanted to rip it off, throw it out the window and scream until his lungs burst. Harry was in danger and Draco was sitting here doing nothing, waiting for Weasley to come back with the damn Pensieve. What if they were hurting Harry? What if they had sold him off? What if they had … what if they had _killed_ him?

“Back,” said Weasley, bursting into the room. He was breathing heavily, as if he'd ran the entire way. His arms trembled from the weight of the Pensieve. He set it down on the table, the dull sound of stone hitting wood echoing through the room. “Right, give me the memory.”

“I'll need a vial,” said Draco, clearing his throat. His legs were shaking so he reclaimed his seat before they could give out on him.

“Right, right.” Weasley turned, grabbing the nearest vial on his cluttered shelves. He tossed it over. “Customary these days to put it in a vial. Heard about the time when the memory just floated through the air and disappeared.”

Weasley didn't seem expect a response from Draco. He was just a nervous talker.

Draco obediently put his wand to his head and drew the memory out, putting it into the vial and handing it over.

Weasley poured the memory into the Pensieve, took a deep, bracing breath and dived in. Draco's leg bounced uncontrollably as he waited for what seemed like years. He itched to grab Weasley by the scruff of his neck and yank him out, to demand that they leave immediately and work out where Harry was, because time was being wasted whilst Weasley's head was stuck in that Pensieve.

His eyes were drawn to a folder open on the desk with the name WORTHINGTON. B written hastily along the tip. Curiosity mingled with desperation got the better of him and so Draco snatched it up and rifled through it. Most of it was background information, practically useless to him now. But then, when he turned another sheet of parchment over, he saw a map. Written in the top right corner was “Worthington's hide-out” and an arrow pointing to the middle of nowhere where there was apparently an abandoned warehouse. Turning over the page again, he saw the address and a picture of the warehouse from the front.

If he followed Auror protocol, then he probably would be stuck there for hours waiting for something to happen or someone to make up their damn mind about what they were doing. It was time that Harry didn't have and Draco couldn't afford to let it be wasted.

With that in mind, he decided to do something that, if he hadn't been so desperate, he would never have done in the first place; he would go there and break Harry out himself and rip the person responsible for this apart with his bare hands. The minor details didn't trouble him. He would do it all by himself, because he knew Robards would take hours to be convinced.

He pulled the parchments out of the folder, chucked said folder back down on the desk and ran out of the room, letting the door slam shut behind him.

*

Draco crouched behind a bush outside the warehouse not fifteen minutes later. There were lights on inside and he could hear people wailing and screaming. His hair stood on end. Now that he was here he could admit that maybe it hadn't been the best idea to run off without a plan. His common sense was quickly muted by his Veela instincts telling him to get inside there already and help Harry. Save Harry.

He tapped his wand anxiously against his knee. Getting in there would be difficult without being seen, and he held no doubt that some of the entrances would be booby-trapped.

Just as he was planning to stand up and scout the area, a hand clamped around his mouth and another around his wand wrist.

“Thought we'd be as careless as last time did you?” growled a voice in his ear. “Think again.”

Something smashed into the side of Draco's skull and the world went black.

*

Ron lifted his head up from the Pensieve.

“Right, Malfoy –” He looked around, startled. The room was empty. “What the …” He spotted the folder on his desk, a good foot away from where it had been when he'd entered into the Pensieve. With dread curdling in the pit of his stomach, he grabbed it and rifled through it with feverish desperation. There were several items missing. “Damn it, Malfoy!”

Ron ran out of his office, attracting the curious gazes of people in the break room, and went straight for Robards. He burst into Robards' office without knocking.

“Malfoy is gone,” he said breathlessly.

Robards arched a brow. “And why should that be a cause for alarm?”

“Because, sir,” said Ron. “He found Worthington's file. I'm pretty sure his Veela protective instincts have kicked in and he's gone to take on Worthington by himself.”

Once a Veela’s mate was threatened, the Veela would go to any lengths to get them back. Ron hadn't appreciated what that meant until now.

“Fucking Malfoy!” growled Robards, slamming his hand down on his desk as he stood up, trembling in rage. “I had Aurors search that warehouse from top to bottom and there wasn't a soul in there. Are you telling me he now has knowledge of classified information?”

“Sir, with all due respect, Worthington is a big name in the underground market,” said Ron. “He could have enlisted help to move everyone back for all we know. Shouldn't we be sending Auror teams down there now just in case?”

Robards rubbed at his forehead, still growling. “Yes. I'll organise a couple of teams to go down there. Shouldn't take more than a couple of hours at most.”

“A couple of hours?” Ron cried, aghast. “Does Harry, Malfoy and all the other Veela have that time?”

“That's as quickly as I can assemble the most capable Aurors and give them their orders,” said Robards challengingly. “Unless you want to stay here and push paper around for the next night or two, I suggest you keep your tongue in check. You're dismissed, Auror Weasley.”

Put-out, Ron mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

He spun around and left Robards' office, fervently hoping that Harry and Malfoy could hold out until Robards got everyone organised.

*

Draco was thrown unceremoniously into a cage. Before he could think to try and escape, the door swung shut with a bang and the guard locked it, grinning at Draco like he was a juicy piece of meat. Draco saw numerous cages all around him, some empty, some holding Veelas that were either asleep, unconscious or dead from their injuries. It was hard to tell. Only one Veela was awake, but his arms were wrapped around his knees as he stared off into the darkness, completely unaware of his surroundings. Draco swallowed past a lump in his throat.

“Well, well, well,” said a snide voice from the shadows of the room. A man walked forward and knelt down in front of the cage, leering at Draco. “I'd been hoping to add you to my collection, but I never thought you'd willingly come to me. If only it was my birthday, then it would've been the perfect birthday surprise.”

Draco looked up into the man's eyes and sneered. This was the man who had taken Harry away from him. This man had to be the one called Worthington.

“It's you,” he said through clenched teeth.

If possible, Worthington's smile grew wider. “Hi.”

*

“You'll look so good in my collection,” said Worthington, dragging his finger lightly across Draco's cheek to his lips, grinning when Draco jerked his head away in disgust. “I haven't had a feisty Veela like you in a long time. They all just sit there passively. It's no fun.”

“When I get free, I'm going to kill you!” Draco growled, yanking at the bars, trying to pull them off the cage, but they were immovable. “I'm going to make you regret what you've done!”

“Now, now,” said Worthington. As he leaned in closer, Draco smelled stale coffee on his breath; his stomach twisted in disgust. “Don't get yourself too worked up. I want you to be all nice and pretty for the auction. Maybe we'll let your precious Potter be there to see you get sold to the highest bidder … It's really too bad that before you and your precious Potter I had caught more Veela. They have to take precedence. First come, first served, you know. The rule sometimes drives me nuts, not going to lie.”

“What have you done with Harry? What have you done to him?”

Worthington caught Draco's eye and leered at him. “You'll find out soon enough.”

“Tell me what you've done with him!” shrieked Draco, his temper snapping. “Tell me what you've done, or I'll make you regret it – you'll regret the day you were born, you miserable – Hey! Where are you going? Tell me what you've done with Harry! Tell me!”

But Worthington continued to walk away, laughing merrily as he went.


	5. Chapter 5

Part 5

Left alone to his devices for most of the day, Draco plotted his escape.

The bars of his cage were spelled so that they wouldn't bend when pulled upon; it was the first thing Draco tried once Worthington left. No matter how much of his Veela strength he used, the bars wouldn't move. All he was left with was raw palms and aching arms.

 _Allure, perhaps_? thought Draco, but dismissed the idea almost immediately. Worthington worked around Veela on a daily basis. He would've learned by now to immunise himself against Allure somehow. Perhaps it would've worked on Worthington's subordinates, but he never saw any of them nearby.

For what felt like days he sat, waiting for his moment. His food (if you could call the slop he'd been given 'food' but he ate it all the same) and water came only once a day, levitated through the bars of the cage. He rarely saw Worthington except for the few rounds that he made to make sure that all his precious Veela were locked away.

Just when he thought he'd never get an opportunity, one showed itself.

“...Fuck sake!” screamed one of the guards, standing a good twenty feet from Draco, directly in Draco's line of sight. He threw his cup of tea on the ground like a petulant child, tea and shards of porcelain flying in all directions. “That fuckin' good fer nothin' house elf can' make a fuckin' decent cup o' tea! Not even if yer put a fuckin' wand to 'er 'ead!”

Cup of tea! thought Draco excitedly. He could make one!

“Ain't no need to take it out on the cup,” said another guard, off where Draco couldn't see, amused. “Should take it out on the house elf.”

“Aye, I 'ave a mind to!”

“Uh, excuse me,” said Draco, lifting his hand up in the air in case those dimwitted trolls couldn't figure out who was speaking. “I know how to make a decent cup of tea.”

“You!” spluttered the first guard. He shared a look with the other guard, and suddenly the two started laughing hysterically, almost falling to their knees.

“A Malfoy who can make tea!” howled the second guard. “Who'd a guessed it?!”

Draco put up with their laughter for a good ten minutes. He didn't roll his eyes, sigh or groan in frustration, which was a feat in and of itself. Finally, when they began to calm down again, sucking in deep, choking breaths, he tried again.

“I can make a decent cup of tea,” he said. “But it's okay if you don't believe me. I'm sure that house elf who made yours would love to make it again. And again. And again.”

“If a Malfoy can make a cup of tea at all, I'll eat my boot,” said the second guard snidely.

“Then you better find something decent for a side course, because you're going to be eating a lot of leather tonight,” replied Draco. “But I understand if you don't want to take that bet. You're just showing a bit of loyalty toward your house elf.”

 _That_ had done it. The first guard looked outraged that anyone would even think he spared a thought toward the house elf. He probably wouldn't even notice if it'd died somehow until it came time to cook him his meals. Draco was uncomfortably aware of how that had been just like him, not a few years ago.

“Ge' Worthington,” was all the first guard said, his lip curling in distaste as he stared at Draco.

Draco's spirits soared. Maybe he could actually pull his plan off. He waited in anticipation for the second guard to come back, but he didn't. Not for another fifteen minutes at the very least.

“What is it?” Worthington snapped, marching into the room. He rubbed at his bloodstained hands with a wet cloth. “I was in the middle of cutting the wings off of another Veela. She was a delightful screamer. Now I'm going to have to waste more of the potion on her to bring out her Veela side.”

Draco swallowed back bile. That blood on Worthington's hands could've been his or Harry's. He felt sorry for Worthington's latest victim, hoping that he hadn't just left her there with her wings half off.

“Malfoy 'ere said 'e could make a decent cup o' tea,” said the first guard.

“Better than the shit the house elf makes,” added the second. “We want permission to take him out of the cage and test him.”

“I can also make a lovely curry,” added Draco. “Just in case you wanted a list of my many talents.”

“Oh, can you?” asked Worthington, amused. “A Malfoy that can cook. You'll be worth a lot more than what I thought. Rare thing, a Malfoy who knows how to do things for himself.”

Draco ignored the jibe, arching a brow. “Well? Are you going to test me or not?”

Worthington snorted, rummaged through his trouser pockets and pulled out a pair of keys, throwing them at the first guard, who only just managed to catch them in time.

“Drag him to the kitchens,” said Worthington. “Do not let him out of your sight. I'll be waiting for you.”

“Aye, sir,” said the second guard, as the first marched over to Draco's cage to unlock it. Worthington disappeared from the room and the door slammed behind him.

“Git ou' 'ere you,” said the first guard, seizing a handful of Draco's hair and dragging him out. The pain was so sharp and surprising that Draco wasn't able to bite back the little cry that burst through his lips. He reached up on instinct to try and tug the sausage-like fingers off his hair to no avail.

The first guard proceeded to drag Draco along to the kitchens by his hair. Draco tried to keep pace with the lengthy stride to ease the pain in his head, but he couldn't.

Worthington sat at the small rounded table in the “kitchen”. It was essentially a large room with only a table, a counter and a fireplace in which a cauldron was resting in. The brick walls and the faded floorboards gave the place a very dreary look. Not that Draco expected a man like Worthington to care about the state of his “work” environment.

In the corner of the kitchen, a lone house elf sobbed quietly into her hands, trembling from fear. Draco pitied her. If he were to hand an item of clothing to any house elf he'd ever come across, it would be this one. There were several bruises on her face and arms. It was clear to Draco that she was regularly beaten for the supposedly terrible food she provided, which would only make her cooking that much worse.

“So, Mr. Cooking Extraordinaire!” said Worthington, grinning mockingly at Draco. “Show us what you've got. We might finally be able to kill off this house elf if you're good enough.”

The house elf whimpered, cowering further into the corner.

“Shut up!” Worthington roared at her, spit flying from his mouth. He slammed his hand down on the table, the sharp slap of skin on wood echoing through the room. “Did I give you permission to make a sound? Did I?”

The house elf clapped her hands over her mouth tighter, squeezing her eyes shut and shaking her head rapidly.

“Then shut up!” continued Worthington, before he turned away from her, sighing theatrically. “Merlin, can't trust the help to do anything they're told these days, eh?”

Draco wanted to shatter every bone in Worthington's body. The only other person Draco had ever met who disgusted him to his core was Voldemort, and he was willing to bet that Worthington, if given the opportunity, would 

make an attempt at (and possibly succeed) becoming a Dark Lord.

“Where's the food kept?” he forced himself to ask. He directed the question at Worthington instead of the house elf, as he didn't feel like provoking an attack because of his rudeness.

“Oi, go and get it,” said Worthington gruffly to the house elf, who obediently went to fetch food as fast as she could go without making it look like she was too eager to get away.

It took a couple of minutes for the house elf to come back. Her thin arms were trembling under the weight of the food. She mustn't have wanted to risk doing two trips for it all. Draco tried not to glare at Worthington. Whilst he didn't hold house elves in high regard, he'd never stoop so low as to treat one like this.

“Here you are, sir,” she said in a tiny voice, standing on the tips of her toes to place her burden on the counter.

“Well?” demanded Worthington, staring at Draco with wide, unblinking eyes. It unnerved Draco. “What are you waiting for? A formal invitation? Get to it.”

Feeling very much on edge because he'd have to turn his back to Worthington and the guards, Draco rolled up his sleeves, went over to the food and started preparing. It was then that he noticed something strange. There were three chilis sitting on the counter. Surreptitiously, he looked down at the house elf who was staring studiously at the floor. Message received, then.

_“Because too much chili burns the mouth and upsets the stomach, and can keep you on the loo for a solid hour,” said Potter. “Trust me, when Ron ate too much chili and used my toilet after, I made a pact never to eat too much chili ever again.”_

At least he wouldn't have to try and figure out a way to poison them. He reached for the knife in the chopping block, had the cauldron moved closer to him by one of the guards (covering two of the smaller chilies with his hand so they couldn't be seen; he didn't know whether any of them were aware of the effects of too much chili) and began chopping them up first.

He wasn't as careful with food preparation as he probably should've been. He dumped everything in the moment he was finished with it and stirred it half-heartedly. By the end he still had only one chili left and so he chopped it up and threw it it, then carried the cauldron over toward the fire, which now had a roaring flame inside it.

“Should be done in about twenty-five minutes,” he said quietly, lying through his teeth. It took a good forty minutes for the curry to cook. The chicken wouldn't be prepared enough and they'd get food poisoning within a few hours, if the chili didn't get to them first.

When the twenty-five minutes were up, Worthington levitated the cauldron over to them, had the house elf get three bowls out and said to Draco, “This better be good.”

 _It'll be the most interesting feast of your lifetime_ , thought Draco vindictively.

He watched as they ladled the curry into their bowls and ate it, waiting for their reactions. At first, they frowned, pressing their hands over their mouths as if to hold the food in.

“Your cooking is abysmal,” said Worthington. “You have no culinary skills that I want. Back to the cage with you, Malf –”

It was then that the chilli kicked in. As they had been spooning it into their mouths with gusto, it hit them quite hard. The first guard let out a high-pitched shriek, leaping from his chair and fanning his mouth. The second guard coughed and spluttered, trying to wipe the burning sensation off his tongue with the palm of his hand. Worthington growled, his mouth wide open, and with one strong swipe of his hand he sent his bowl flying across the room to shatter against the wall.

“Why you little –” Worthington attempted to hit Draco, but he was distracted by the fact that his tongue was burning and tears were welling in his eyes. In two swift movements, Draco stomped on Worthington's toes and kneed him in the crotch, before bringing an elbow down onto the base of Worthington's skull, knocking him unconscious. He looked down at Worthington's prone body, his shirt collar pulled down a bit to expose his vulnerable throat. All it would take was one bite and Worthington would be the one thing he hated most – the poetic justice of it all would be worth it … 

Draco found himself on his knees, hands hovering over Worthington's body, in the time that it took to blink. Sliding his tongue over his teeth, he discovered that he'd let his fangs show. He was fully prepared to turn Worthington.

 _No, don't!_ he thought desperately. _If you turn him, you're sinking to his level, and that makes you no better than the Veela who attacked and turned you against your will. Let him rot in Azkaban for the rest of his life._

He stood.

“Where's my wand?” Draco said sharply to the house elf, trembling from the adrenaline pumping through his veins. For now, the two guards were distracted by the chili searing through their digestive tract, but they wouldn't be for long. “Go and get it!”

The house elf nodded and disappeared with a crack. Five se

conds later, she returned with a bunch of wands in her arms. “These is all the wands they is taking, sir,” she said.

Draco nodded. “Thank you.”

It was the first time Draco had ever thanked a house elf and the first time the house elf had probably ever been thanked, so needless to say they were both shocked.

“What is going to be happening to Nippy, sir?” asked the house elf, Nippy, in a very quiet, sombre voice. “I is shaming my master, sir. I is to be given clothes, sir, and I is a bad house elf.”

Finding his own wand in the pile, Draco pointed it at Worthington and said, “Stupefy! Incarcerous!” and did the same to the two guards. One of them wore leather gloves, so Draco stripped it off one of the guards and chucked it to the house elf. “Go to Hogwarts. They'll take you in.”

She nodded. “Thank you, sir.” She disappeared.

Draco jogged to the door, stopped, then ran back and kicked Worthington twice in the ribs just because he could. Whenever Worthington woke up, Draco wanted him to be in just a little bit more pain. It was less than the fuckwit deserved, though.

“ _Invocatio_ , St. Mungo's … um, um, Healer Nelson!” he said.

It took the better part of a minute for Healer Nelson to answer her wand.

“I hope you realise how lucky you are that Healers are well informed of Auror communication,” said Healer Nelson. “Draco Malfoy, how lovely to see you again. What can I do for you?” Her tone held an edge of sarcasm, but Draco didn't care about that at the moment.

“I need you to send Aurors and a team of Healers to the warehouse 2628 about one kilometre from the M11 motorway leading to Essex, it's on an abandoned stretch of dirt road. I've just taken out Blake Worthington and I'm now freeing his captive Veelas,” said Draco urgently. “We need assistance right away!”

Healer Nelson, thankfully, didn't question him. “I shall have Healers to your location shortly. Please inform the Veelas to wait outside the warehouse. It is imperative that they do not fly away.”

Draco chose not to mention how difficult that would be for many of the Veela locked up here, for most of them no longer had wings any more.

“Right,” he said instead. “I'm ending the call now. See you soon.”

“See you momentarily,” said Healer Nelson, and Draco disconnected the call.

The warehouse was bigger than Draco had anticipated. He freed the only live Veela he'd shared one room with, but the Veela did not move and didn't seem to realise that the cage door was open. With a pang of regret, Draco left him there. There were others who would leave once their cage doors were opened, and Draco knew he could always tell someone that this Veela was still here.

As he ran through the rooms, freeing Veela and handing back wands, he made sure to tell them to wait outside, and through their tears of relief they all agreed. Snatching up their wands, they raced to find the exits as fast as they could. For most of them, they could only hobble or clutch at things to pull themselves forward, so unused to walking that they'd almost forgotten how.

With each room he entered, he hoped to see Harry there but he was disappointed every time and his anxiety grew. The longer he was kept away from Harry, the more he visualised something horrible happening to him.

Finally, in the very last room, he found Harry.

There were twelve Veelas here, making it a total of 37 he'd released, with a good fifteen still locked in cages, dead. Draco was sickened at how many lives had been ruined or ended because of Worthington. At that moment, two kicks to the ribs and a burned mouth didn't seem like justice enough.

“Draco?” asked Harry, when Draco knelt down in front of the cage and unlocked it with magic. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, it's me,” said Draco, holding out his hand after he swung the door open. “Come with me. We're getting out of here.” Harry's was the last cage he'd opened. He'd freed them all. “Let's go.”

Tears swam in Harry's eyes as he took Draco's hand and allowed himself to be pulled out. They stood toe to toe, staring at one another as if they could hardly believe their eyes, before Draco grabbed Harry around the shoulders and dragged him in for a hug, burying his face into the crook of Harry's shoulder.

“I'm so happy you're alive,” said Draco, squeezing his eyes shut. Harry's arms came around him, clutching him as if scared something would take him away. “I'm so happy you're safe.”

“Draco, Draco, Draco,” said Harry repeatedly, his voice hoarse and full of emotion.

Draco forced himself to pull back, even though he wanted to hold onto Harry forever and never let him go.

“We need to go outside,” he said. “Aurors and Healers will be out there waiting for us.”

He grabbed Harry's hand tightly and led him through the various rooms – making sure to look into every cage and make sure he hadn't missed someone – before they burst through one of the exits and out into the fresh air. It was mid-afternoon.

Many Veelas were still making their way out, blinking rapidly and shielding their eyes from the light. Healers were Apparating in before their very eyes, bringing stretchers along with them.

“Come sit down,” said Draco, leading Harry to the nearest stretcher.

Draco stopped the nearest Healer. “There's one more inside, alive, that I couldn't convince to come out. Room nearest the kitchen area.”

“Aye,” said the Healer. “I'll go fetch them at once.”

Draco nodded and turned away. “Thanks.”

He felt Harry squeeze his hand and closed his eyes, thanking whatever higher power there might be that they hadn't taken Harry from him. No matter what, he had Harry still and that was the most important thing.

He squeezed Harry's hand back.

*

“Thank you,” many Veelas sobbed as they were led from the warehouse. Many of them were wingless, but that hardly seemed to worry them. They alternated between hugging Draco tightly, kissing his cheek multiple times, or shaking his hand vigorously. After the second Veela, a fourteen year old girl named Ebony, Draco was crying. By the seventeenth, he was sobbing. “You saved our lives. Thank you!”

Harry sat on one of the many stretchers outside the warehouse. Someone had put a blanket around his shoulders. There were only five Healers to treat thirty-seven Veelas and Draco had heard Harry tell at least two, who'd come to treat him at different times, to focus more on the others than on him.

“Hey,” said Draco, hands buried deep in his pockets as he approached Harry. Harry looked up at him, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. “Probably a stupid question, but how are you feeling?”

“Better,” admitted Harry, through a heavy sigh. “Better now that I'm not trapped in there.”

His bottom lip trembled and he buried his face into his hands, hiding away so that Draco wouldn't see him cry.

“Hey,” said Draco, immediately wrapping his arms around Harry, pulling him close. “It's okay, you're fine now.” More tears dripped down his cheeks.

“I was so fucking scared,” said Harry hoarsely. “I was so fucking scared.”

“I was too,” said Draco, pressing kisses to Harry's temple. “It's okay.”

“But you saved us all,” said Harry. “You kept your cool. Me? I panicked.”

“You don't think I wasn't panicking too? Harry, my plan relied so much on sheer dumb luck! I'm still amazed that I pulled it off.” Draco touched three fingers to the underside of Harry's chin, gently coaxing him into looking up and meeting Draco's eyes. “You were without your wand, without magic, and they were going to turn you into a Veela, rip off your wings and sell you. No one blames you for panicking, or being terrified. I don't blame you. I know that – I know that you wished you could've done more than what you had, but that doesn't matter any more because it's over. These people,” he gestured around to all the Veelas around them, who were all sobbing, shrieking incoherently, or calling out for loved ones, “will now have lives. That's what matters.”

Harry's chin wobbled. He gingerly stood up, holding onto Draco's arms until his legs were steady underneath him, then threw his arms around Draco's neck and cried into his shoulder. Draco clutched at Harry so tightly, daring the world to try and rip Harry from his arms now, for he was prepared to fight with everything he had and more to keep him there, safe and sound.

“Everyone!” called a Healer, holding a hand up to call attention to herself. She stood the furthest away from the warehouse, holding the hand of a male Veela whose face was marred by scars both old and new. “We're going to be transporting you to St. Mungo's shortly once the Aurors arrive!”

“We're finally getting out of this place!” squeaked a tiny woman to Harry and Draco's left. She was emaciated, all bones and sharp angles, and her black hair was wispy and dead looking. She was one of the dozens of Veelas that did not have wings any more. The woman clapped her hands over her mouth, crying anew. “We're leaving!”

“That means Ron'll prob'ly be here,” said Harry quietly, sniffling. “Being an Auror, and all.”

Draco looked down at him carefully. Harry didn't seem pleased about Weasley coming here; in fact, he sounded quite emotionless. “Are you alright with that?”

Harry shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “I don't know whether I'm alright with anything any more.”

Biting his lip, Draco looked away from Harry, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder tightly. He would've loved nothing more than to storm into that warehouse where Worthington lay unconscious, bleeding and bound up and kill him like he'd intended to. To torture Worthington for hours for putting Harry through this – for putting countless innocent Veela and Veela mates through this. How many Veela and mates had been sold before Worthington was brought down? How many were now sexual slaves to the greedy?

Draco closed his eyes, tears stinging his eyelids, trying not to think about just how close he and Harry had come to that fate. Going through life without Harry was now impossible, a ludicrous thought.

There were several dozen cracks signifying Apparition. Aurors flooded the area, wands drawn and faces grim. Veelas all around were rejoicing, for now their freedom was guaranteed. There was something awe-inspiring about the Aurors, the way that they stood there like heroes, watching over them.

“Group one!” shouted Robards. “Attend to the Veelas and escort them safely to the hospital. Group two! Come with me. We're apprehending Worthington once and for all.”

Group one rushed forward, swarming around the stretchers and Apparating Veela one by one, returning seconds later for more.

“Harry!” Weasley cried, rushing forward. “Harry, are you alright?”

“Does he look alright Weasley?” demanded Draco incredulously. “What a stupid question!”

“Draco,” said Harry tiredly. “Don't. Don't fight. Not now. Please.” He waited until Draco had visibly calmed down before addressing Weasley. “Ron, I'm fine. I promise. Draco saved me – saved us all – before anything could happen.”

“Which reminds me,” said Weasley, then he slapped the back of Draco's head lightly.

“Ouch!” Draco whirled on Weasley angrily. “What the hell was that for?”

“For running off,” said Weasley simply. “You were supposed to wait for me so that we could come up with a plan of attack. It was a stupid thing to do.”

“You were taking too long,” said Draco mulishly, rubbing the back of his head. “Besides, everything's turned out alright thanks to my running off.”

“When you're in this line of work,” Weasley pointed to the Auror emblem on his work robes, “you learn that every good thing that happens is only because you got lucky. That's all this was. Luck.”

“Auror Weasley!” a woman shouted, her Auror robes flapping in the light breeze. “Are you going to Apparate them to the hospital or stand there chatting with them?”

“Whoops, sorry Auror Johnson!” Weasley held out his arm. “Come on, then.”

Draco waited until Harry had taken Weasley's arm before he made any move to do so himself. The second his hand touched Weasley, he felt a yank around his navel as the world disappeared into darkness and then the sensation of being pushed through a very tight tube, before his world straightened itself out again and he, Harry and Weasley stood amidst the chaos of St. Mungos.

Weasley turned to them and said, “I've got to go find the other Aurors and see what's what.” He slowly reached out and clasped Harry's shoulder. “I'll see you soon, alright? I'll let Hermione know you are – that you both are safe.” He shared a meaningful look with Draco, who found the inclusion of his own wellbeing into that sentence a not entirely unwelcome surprise.

Healers were running every which way to attend to the Veelas, taking and giving orders to each other. None of the Healers looked stressed out at the sudden influx of new patients; instead, they took it all in stride as if it happened every night. Perhaps part of their training had prepared them for this.

Harry clutched at Draco's arm so tightly it hurt. Only Draco's coaxing could have made him move. He walked like all his joints were stiff, like it pained him. It would be a while, Draco knew, before Harry was back to his old self, if that person still existed any more after what he'd just been through.

“Mr. Potter,” said a Healer, a bespectacled young man with a freckled face and very short brown hair. He clutched a clipboard in hand and had been writing furiously when he'd looked up and saw Harry and Draco approaching. “Bed number 356 is free. I'll mark you down for that bed. Mr. Malfoy –”

“I am uninjured,” said Draco immediately, spotting the terrified look on Harry's face at the prospect of the two of them getting split up again. “I don't need a bed.”

“I'm afraid you must be seen to by a Healer,” said the man rather pompously. “It's protocol.”

“Then someone can check me over from Harry's bedside,” said Draco firmly. “I'm not leaving his side; if you dare try and make me, you'll regret it.”

The man seemed to know how pick and choose his battles, for he acquiesced easily, showing Harry to his bed.

“You'll be alright now,” said Draco, dragging an empty chair to the bedside and sat down. He clasped Harry's hand, his fingers promptly squashed in a tight grip but he didn't complain. He'd let Harry break his bones trying to hold onto him than let anyone break Harry by tearing them apart.

“Does my mate know I'm here?” screamed a woman down the hall. “Does she know I'm safe? It's been six months! Six months! I need her, I need her, someone get her!”

“Ma'am, please,” said a Healer loudly. “The quicker you calm down, the quicker we can get to every patient and start making calls to loved ones. You need to settle down.”

“Will he love me if I'm wingless?” asked a woman. She was much calmer than the first one, but her voice had a dead sort of quality to it, as if she were only asking because it was the proper thing to do and not because she cared in the slightest. “He always loved my wings.”

“If he truly loved you,” said a female Healer soothingly, “then he'll love you no matter what. Please lean forward and let me see the incisions. You said they were recent?”

“Just the other day. Cut them half off and then had to leave …”

A few Veelas were moved from the public ward to private rooms depending on how serious their injuries were, or how mentally scarred they were presumed to be. Draco determined that getting your own room meant full-time stay for a long while. He tightened his grip on Harry's hand and hoped that they'd only have to stay overnight.

It was another hour before a Healer could be spared to see Harry. In that time, a couple of Veelas had meltdowns and now bed 322 was uninhabitable because a male Veela had destroyed it whilst having an anxiety attack. When the Healers managed to stop him, he'd cried for fifteen minutes and begged for them not to hurt him.

Draco wanted to press his hands over his ears and block out all the noise. He couldn't take much more of knowing the fate he and Harry had narrowly escaped.

“We'll be okay,” said Harry softly, the first words he'd spoken since they'd arrived. “Won't we?”

“Yes,” said Draco immediately, glad for the distraction. He lent over the bed, swiping Harry's sweaty hair out of the way to kiss his forehead. “Yes, we'll be okay.”

“Alright then,” said Harry. There was a short pause before he whispered, “I love you, Draco.”

A painful lump formed in Draco's throat. It took him several seconds to get his trembling lips to form words.

“I love you, too, Harry,” he said.

“Mr. Potter!” said a Healer. “I am Healer Monroe, good afternoon.”

Healer Monroe was a kind face, middle-aged woman who was just edging toward the plump side. Her mane of black hair was pulled up into a ponytail. She looked like she could have been someone's grandmother.

“If you could just sit forward a little bit for me –”

“I'm not a Veela,” said Harry quietly. “They hadn't gotten to me yet.”

Healer Monroe blinked at him in surprise. Clearly all her patients so far had been Veela.

“Draco's a Veela,” said Harry. Processing what he'd said, Harry's eyes widened and he shot Draco an alarmed look. “They didn't hurt you either, did they?”

Draco stood up, moved away from the bed and closed his eyes to concentrate. Within seconds, his wings appeared, stretching out to soothe the cramps that prolonged confinement had brought. Just as quickly as he'd let them appear, he made them disappear again. It wouldn't do to let anyone else see them. He didn't want anyone to think he was showing them off, being prideful about keeping his wings when so many Veelas in this ward didn't have them any more.

“They're there,” he said, watching Harry visibly relax. “I'm fine.”

“Right,” said Healer Monroe. “Then just let me check your vitals and such.”

Harry did. He stared off ahead of him, blank-faced, as Healer Monroe cast diagnostic spells over him.

“You're perfectly healthy,” proclaimed Healer Monroe with a smile. “However, might I suggest seeing someone – a therapist. The ordeal you have both been through is too great.”

“Thank you,” said Draco. “We'll consider it.”

Healer Monroe nodded to them. “You'll be discharged in the morning. Please get some rest.” She said her goodbyes once more, then left.

“I wish I could just go home now,” whispered Harry, a tear falling down his cheek. “Just so that I didn't have to think about it any more. I want to go home.”

“I know you do,” said Draco. “But morning will come soon, just you wait and see. We'll be home before you know it.”

* 

Harry was discharged early the next morning. He was one of the few people to be allowed to go. He held Draco's hand tightly as they left, keeping his head bowed and his gaze on the ground as they walked through the ward. It felt like everyone's eyes were on them, watching them go.

There was no fanfare when they returned home. Draco had sent letters to Harry's friends to let him know that he was safe and sound at home. Everyone must've agreed not to bother them today, for no one came around and his letters garnered responses wishing them well and that they'd all see them soon.

Harry was tucked into bed, where he'd been for several hours, sleeping on and off. Draco busied himself with tidying up, convincing himself that what Harry needed for now was to be alone. He'd spent days in close proximity to other people, watched as Veelas were tortured around him, then spent a night in a ward full of screaming and pleading. He needed to be alone.

“Draco.” The sound of Harry's voice made Draco whip around in surprise, dropping the dish he'd been washing in the sink. He'd needed something to do with his hands, and that had been the only thing to come to mind. Harry was dressed in only pyjama bottoms and his hair was messier than ever. Even his glasses seemed to sit askew on his face. “Come to bed.”

“Just let me finish washing up –”

“No,” said Harry. “I need you. Please, come to bed.”

Draco bit his lip, nodding. “Alright. Come on.”

Harry took his hand and led him to bed.

Tomorrow they would deal with the world and the mess that Worthington had made of their lives. They would deal with friends sobbing into their shoulders, rejoicing that they were alive and well. They'd deal with the pain of a public statement, Rita Skeeter's wretched articles …

But for tonight, it was only them. Only Harry and Draco, wrapped up in each others arms as they slowly drifted to sleep, still together despite the world's best efforts to tear them apart.

Tonight, they just were.


End file.
